U is for Ugly
by BarbaraLee
Summary: Their new role as paramedics brings Roy DeSoto and John Gage face to face with the ugly side of human nature. Mature themes, including sexual violence and the ramifications thereof. Alphabet challenge.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

**Scene One**

"Man, the things people find to do to each other," Johnny commented incredulously.

"I just wish they'd do it at a reasonable hour," Roy walked around to the driver's side of the squad while Johnny stowed the gear. Roy loved being a paramedic, he'd worked for it, fought for it, but this was the kind of run that gave him pause. They'd been called out shortly after one o'clock in the morning for a couple of drunks who couldn't agree on which required greater skill, pool or darts. They did agree to test both … on each other. Their hangovers would cause them more pain than their injuries, and they were now safely tucked into the back of Vince's car. The bartender and the waitress hadn't fared quite so well. Although a dart had punctured his thigh and a swinging pool cue had severely bruised her shoulder they'd refused the ambulance. "Squad 51 available."

The check-in acknowledged, Roy started the engine and pulled into traffic. They'd gone two blocks when the call came. People trapped, unknown injuries.

"That can't be right," Johnny stared at the radio as if expecting it to reply. He grabbed the microphone and requested a confirmation of the address as Roy swung the squad around and hit the lights and siren.

They pulled back up to the bar and again grabbed their gear. "What happened," Johnny asked Vince as he came over.

"Once all the noise from those two started dying down we could hear the other two." Was Vince smiling?

"What 'other two,'" Roy asked as he and Johnny reentered the bar.

"You'll see." He was trying not to laugh. "I don't think you need me for this one," said Vince. "I've got to run those two in," he nodded toward the back of his car. As he turned, Roy and Johnny heard him laughing heartily.

The bartender was helping the waitress on with her sweater. "Welcome back," he called jovially. "We're heading over to the hospital now. Manager's in back waiting for you." He grabbed his own jacket and hustled her out the door. Both were laughing.

Roy and Johnny exchanged glances as they made their way to the back of the bar. "Hello?" Johnny called.

"Over here," came the reply. The manager was a short, balding man with a round face that now wore a big grin. "In there," he pointed to the small store room as he hurried back to tend his bar.

Together the paramedics peered in, both wondering what could possibly be so funny about someone trapped or hurt.

A flimsy shelving unit had fallen over. Sticking out from beneath it were a pair – no, two pairs of bare feet. It was a young couple, arms and legs twisted in each other and the bent shelves. Johnny came around to make sure they could safely move the unit. He stopped short and turned his head. Roy looked over, puzzled, but Johnny was too busy scouring the room to notice. He finally spotted what he was looking for and lightly tossed something at the victims. Roy's look of confusion deepened but there was a job to do, satisfying his curiosity would have to wait.

The shelving unit was light but had caught on a piece of pipe near the ceiling. The couple had fallen in such a way that neither could get any leverage to move. Fortunately the shelves had been nearly empty, save a few half-empty boxes of paper goods. Roy and Johnny made short work of clearing the minimal debris and releasing the couple. It was then that Roy saw what the others had seen and what Johnny had thrown. Their feet weren't all that was bare. Johnny had tossed them their clothes, which they were pulling on even as they scrambled toward the door.

"We really should check you out," Roy told them. They each mumbled something about being fine and raced for the exit. Roy and Johnny managed to maintain their composure until they were back in the squad.

"The things people find to do to each other," said Johnny. They burst out laughing.


	2. Act I

**ACT I**

**Scene One**

Roy killed the motor. He and Johnny sat as the laughter gave way to exhaustion. After a minute Roy pulled the key from the ignition and they exited the vehicle. They had just entered the dorm when

"Station 51, single vehicle accident with injuries."

Immediately alert, they were soon back on the road followed closely by Big Red and her crew.

Vince was there, waiting. There were no other police. None were necessary. They were in what had been an industrial neighborhood that, these days, was quiet during the day; it was deserted now. The front end of the once beautiful 1967 Plymouth Barracuda was now crushed against the wall of the long abandoned warehouse.

"Wish this was more like the last one," Vince said grimly when they had gotten their gear.

"What have we got," asked Cap.

"Drunk driver," the officer replied. "Just a kid, from the looks of her, but I can't get close. I tried a couple of times, she got hysterical."

_The things people find to do to themselves,_ Johnny thought as they went to the car. They were still a few yards away when the distinct odor of tequila reached them, strengthening with each step they took.

Vince was right. The driver looked barely eighteen. Her head was thrown back, her eyes were closed tight and she was murmuring.

"Ma'am," she stiffened at the sound of Johnny's voice. "We're with the fire department; we're here to help you." He opened the driver's door and knelt beside her. "Ma'am, where are you hurt?" Her legs were pinned under the folded dash and the steering wheel was pressing into her belly. "Ma'am, can you look at me," Johnny continued.

"No," she whispered tearfully. He threw a glance to the windshield. It was badly cracked but had held together, no flying glass. The side windows were both rolled down. "Please no." He reached across her to release her safety belt. She cringed and let out a cry. "Please don't."

"Can you tell me your name," Johnny asked.

"No," she repeated. "Please." Her eyes remained clenched, her breathing grew ragged.

Captain Hammer came over. There was no gas leaking, no sparks; Roy put up a hand to stop him. Cap repeated the signal to the rest of the crew, _sit tight_. Meanwhile, Roy made his way to the passenger side and slid in next to her. "It's OK," said Roy soothingly. "No one is going to hurt you, I promise. You've been in a car accident. We're paramedics. We need to make sure you're not hurt too badly." As he spoke he released the belt and gingerly passed it to Johnny, being careful not to touch her or let her feel what he'd done. "I'm going to take your hand now. I need your wrist to check your pulse, OK?" She bit her lip. "OK?"

She swallowed hard and nodded. She tensed visibly when he touched her but she allowed him to take her pulse. It was fast … too fast.

"Good," said Roy, still holding her wrist and monitoring her pulse. "Now my partner's going to take your blood pressure. Have you had your blood pressure taken before?" An almost imperceptible shake of her head. Johnny had already grabbed the cuff and was reaching for her arm. Again Roy raised his hand, palm flat. _Stop._ "Wait," Roy mouthed to him. To her, in his gentlest voice Roy said, "He needs to put a cuff around your arm. It'll go just above your elbow. You'll hear pumping, then it'll get tight, and then he's going to slide a stethoscope between the cuff and your arm." He looked directly at Johnny. "He'll go slow and easy. Understand?" A long moment passed before she nodded. "Easy does it," he said as much for Johnny as for their patient.

Johnny didn't understand. He knew what Roy wanted him to do, he just couldn't figure why he wanted to do it this way. She was drunk, how did Roy expect to reason with a drunk? _On the other hand, she's calmer now, and I guess slow is still faster than fighting with her first. _He took her wrist as softly as he could. He noted a bruise that went about three quarters of the way around it on the inside. As he slid the bp cuff into place he spotted another angry bruise on her inner arm at the bicep. It was large and ugly and nearly round. He was able to get Roy's attention and point it out. Roy just looked down. Johnny followed his gaze to a matching bruise on her right arm. _Strange._

Her pulse was rapid, her respirations high and her bp was low. They couldn't get a read on her pupillary response; she refused to open her eyes.

Johnny manned the biophone. He forgot all about slow and gentle as he sat by her and called in to Rampart with his full voice. She whimpered and drew closer to Roy.

"Take it easy," Roy hissed.

"Roy," Johnny snapped. She cried out and clamped down on Roy's hand with a vice grip.

Johnny had had enough. Before Roy could stop him he turned to their patient and said sternly, "Miss, you're injured, possibly badly. We need to check you out and that means we need to look at your eyes. Please open your eyes!"

Her eyes flew open. She was very still for a long moment, staring at Johnny. Then her eyes widened in fear and she tried to scramble away from him, panic setting in as she realized she was pinned. She screamed. It chilled the blood of every man there.

**Scene Two**

Roy had seen it before. One, like now, had led to a car accident. One victim had run away and fallen into a shallow ravine and one had locked herself in her apartment and frightened her family and friends when she'd ignored their calls. Once the actual rescues had been complete the care of these women had fallen to the nurses. Roy had watched, his heart in his throat. It used to be just police, ambulances if there were injuries. Now paramedics would be called on first, with or without additional accident or incident. For the first time since becoming a paramedic Roy wished there was a nurse along.

Johnny worked quietly. He had frozen when she'd looked at him. He'd never frozen on the job before, and it was only for a second, but he'd frozen. She was afraid of him. _Tell the truth. She was terrified._ He probably shouldn't have barked at her, but he was trying to help her, after all. _Roy knows something. He tried to tell you. What does he know? What did Roy see that you missed?_

She had fainted. It did make the job much easier. _Not cool, Gage,_ he reprimanded himself. Her respirations and pulse had shown slight improvement once she was unconscious. She had a couple of cracked ribs and a broken pelvis. They'd also found two more of those large, circular bruises on her thighs. They'd reported their findings and followed Rampart's instructions. All that was left now was the transport.

Roy was squatting next to her, monitoring her IV's and vitals, whispering with Vince. _What is Roy so angry about?_ Johnny took a step closer.

"I don't think she's drunk," Roy was saying.

Vince shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, Roy, I am. You're probably right, but one doesn't change the other."

"It's not sympathy Vince. I _really_ don't think she's drunk."

"Come on, she reeks of alcohol."

"Yeah, I know. I worked on her. It's on her, but I was right next to her when she screamed. I didn't smell it on her breath. I think it's on her clothes." Vince looked doubtful. "You're going to follow us to the hospital anyway, right? If I'm wrong you can always arrest her later. It's not like she's going anywhere, and if I'm right …"

_Right about what? _ They heard the sirens that told them the ambulance was near. Roy stowed the last of the equipment and rose. "Hey, Johnny?"

"Yeah?"

"Grab my helmet, will you? I think I left it in the car."

Johnny trotted over to the now empty wreck. A quick glance revealed Roy's helmet in the back seat. When he couldn't quite get to it he kneeled in on his right knee to extend his reach. As he stood he happened to glance at the seat, at the large, nearly round indentation his knee had left. He dropped the helmet.

The ambulance had pulled up, she had been loaded, Roy had joined her and they were pulling out. The engine crew's job here was done, everyone was waiting on him. He didn't notice. As he stared, the print of his own knee changed color, no longer the black leather of the car seat, it was now an angry purple. The color of bruises. He was sick with sudden understanding. Johnny ran behind the car to throw up.


	3. Act II

**ACT II**

**Scene One**

The thought of how the girl had looked at him slammed Johnny back against the squad. He didn't want to go into the hospital, didn't want to see her, didn't want to chance her seeing him. He couldn't face that terror in her eyes, terror he had put there. He'd rescued terrified people before, he had been on the receiving end of their fear, even been blamed for that fear. He'd climbed after people who were afraid of heights and dove for people who were afraid of water. He'd started I.V.'s on patients who were afraid of needles, and everyone was afraid of cave—ins and fires. He knew it wasn't him she was afraid of; part of him did, anyway. Another part, a louder, more persistent part, told him that even if it wasn't his fault it was his responsibility. If he'd only realized sooner what they were dealing with, if he'd only gone a little slower and been a little gentler, if he'd only followed Roy's lead, if only … _Knock it off. "If only" won't accomplish anything. Just go find Roy._ Roy was inside. Johnny could wait out here, in the squad; he'd done it before. He should duck in and let someone know he was out here, although that wasn't really necessary. He could use the radio. _From right outside the door? Really?_ There was no reason to believe he would see the girl as long as he steered clear of the treatment rooms, and it was probably a safe bet that she wouldn't see him. He should just go in. He could make sure she didn't see him. He did want to check on her. He hoped from the bottom of his heart that she would be all right, that they had been able to help her, that he had helped her, at least medically. _You're being ridiculous. Get your skinny butt in there. _He didn't know how long he'd been standing there, debating with himself, when he spotted Vince parking his squad car. Johnny took a deep breath and steeled himself as Vince drew near. He fell into step with the officer and they entered the emergency room together.

Roy was waiting by the base station as Johnny and Vince came down the corridor. He looked at his partner and shook his head. _No word yet._ He raised his eyebrows. _Are you all right?_

Johnny nodded. _Yeah, I'm ok._

Dixie emerged from Treatment Room 5 looking grim. She joined the three men at the base station and looked slowly from one to another. "She's come around. She's won't speak; without answering any of Kel's questions the exam is taking that much longer, and that's …" she inhaled sharply, and took a moment before she could go on. "She won't speak to me, either. She's in pain and she's losing a lot of blood." Vince handed her a small leather pouch with fringes and a long, thin strap. "What's this?"

"Her purse. Yes," he replied before the next question had been voiced, "her parents are being contacted. Her name is Melissa Tyro." He took a moment before adding, "She's 15."

"Oh my G—d." Roy fell onto the counter.

Johnny fell almost as hard against the wall. "She's just kid," he whispered.

"It gets worse," Dixie held back the tears. "If we can't get the internal bleeding under control fast, she may need a hysterectomy." She turned to Vince. "Any idea how long it'll take to get to the parents? We need consent, especially if … we need consent."

"Afraid not," Vince told her. After another long moment of silence he asked, "What about her alcohol level? How long for that blood test?"

"Vince – "

"No, Roy, listen. As far as I know she was driving drunk, not to mention she's underage. If she's under arrest then she's in police custody."

Before Roy could respond Dixie moved back toward the treatment room. "Thanks, Vince." She disappeared inside.

Roy shook his head wearily as he rose from the counter. Suddenly Johnny was beside him, shouting. "You're going to," Johnny adjusted his volume but his anger remained clear, "you're going to her arrest her? How can you do that?"

"Johnny, the law –"

"The law, Vince? Really? After everything that poor kid's been through, is still going through, can't the law just … I don't know, wait its turn?"

"Johnny," Roy said calmly, "if she's under arrest she's in police custody. Understand?" Roy could see the point wasn't making it past his partner's rage. He admired Johnny's passion and empathy but wished he could temper the former.

Johnny seemed to deflate as understanding dawned. "Yeah, I guess. But there's got to be a better way than arresting her," he mumbled.

Dixie was coming toward them, her expression bleak. "Vince," she said softly upon reaching them, "we have to move. Come do whatever it is you need to do."

"Where is she," a male voice demanded. The foursome looked up to see a tall, slender man with intense blue eyes and thick salt—and—pepper hair moving down the corridor toward them. "Where is my daughter," he continued, stopping before them.

"Sir," Dixie began.

The man cut her off, his attention directed to Vince. "The name is Tyro. The police called, told me my Missy is here. Where is she, why is she here?"

"Mr. Tyro," Dixie tried again. Again she was interrupted.

"Pastor."

"Excuse me?"

"Pastor. Pastor Samuel Tyro." He turned his back on her and addressed the men. "Where is my daughter?"

"Pastor Tyro, your daughter's been pretty seriously injured," Roy told him gently. "She's bleeding pretty badly and needs an operation right away. Your permission is required for surgery."

"What happened," he asked.

"I'm afraid your daughter was assaulted, Sir."

"Assaulted?"

"Yes," Roy confirmed. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Sir, but it looks like your daughter was raped."

The door to the treatment room burst open and the gurney containing Missy Tyro rolled by them on the way to the elevator. "Daddy?" The cry was weak but unmistakable.

He turned to her. With a quick nod from Dr. Brackett, who'd moved straight to the elevator and pushed the call button, the orderlies stopped the gurney and stepped back to give the father and daughter a moment.

"I'm sorry, Daddy."

"What do you have to be sorry for?" Roy shuddered. There was an odd tone to the question. It wasn't the sympathetic, rhetorical question that assured the girl of her father's love. He sounded like a stern teacher leading a small child to an important lesson.

"I'm sorry I went out tonight. I'm sorry I …" Her voice was small, her lip quivered as she fought the tears.

"No crying, Child. Tell me the truth. Are you sorry?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And for what are you sorry?"

She lost her battle and the tears began to flow. "I'm sorry I disobeyed you."

"And?"

"I'm sorry. I … I went to see Rob. It was Rob, Daddy. … It was Rob. I'm so sorry. … I'm sorry, Daddy … I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He stared at her. There was nothing sympathetic or gentle in his eyes. "Daddy, please …" She reached for him. He stepped back.

"Harlot!" He walked away from her.

With her father gone from her sight line she was left looking toward Johnny and Roy. Her gaze first landed on Johnny. "I'm sorry," she whispered. Her eyes then met Roy's and she tried in vain to smile. He stepped over to her and she reached for his hand, which he quickly gave her. She tried to sit up; Roy dropped the side—rail on the gurney and moved closer to her. She threw her arm around his waist, pressed her face into his side and wept. He held her gently to him with one hand, with the other he softly stroked her hair as he would his own daughter's when she was hurt or afraid.

"Pastor," Roy called after him. He stopped. "This is your daughter. How could you –"

"That is correct, _my_ daughter. I must do what I know to be right."

"'Right!'" Roy's hold on the girl tightened protectively.

"Do you have a daughter?"

"Yes, Sir, as a matter of fact I do."

"When your daughter has been taught about boys, when your daughter has been warned about a particular boy, when your daughter has disobeyed you and allowed herself to be taken, then you may judge me sir."

"Pastor Tyro," Roy tried, "whatever mistakes Missy may have made she didn't 'allow herself to be taken.' Your child has been the victim of a brutal crime. She needs your support, not your –"

"You support her. My daughter was a good girl. This sinner is not my daughter."

"That's hardly a charitable attitude, now is it," Roy challenged him. "Even Mary Magdalene was forgiven her sins."

"Mary Magdalene repented her sins." He glared at Missy. "My daughter knew to stay within the bosom of her family. My daughter knew to stay away from that boy. My daughter knew to honor her father. My daughter died tonight." He turned to leave.

Dixie reined in her temper and moved to block his exit. "She needs care we cannot provide without parental consent."

"You have it. Do whatever you see fit." He said without turning to face them.

"_Written_ consent," she insisted.

"Very well." Dixie went to the nurses' station. Pastor Tyro found himself looking at the shocked faces of the four men who had been caring for his daughter tonight. "Thank you for your efforts, gentlemen." His gratitude was as heartfelt as a thanks for holding open a door. Dixie returned and handed him a clipboard and a pen. He glanced over the form, signed it and thrust the items back at her. This time nothing stopped his departure.

Brackett punched the elevator button again. The door opened immediately. "Let's get her up to the O.R. stat," he barked. The orderlies started to move the gurney into the car, but Missy tightened her hold on Roy.

"Please stay with me," she begged. "Please don't leave me alone."

"Shh," Roy removed her arm from around his waist but held onto her hand. "I'm right here. I'll be right here with you until you fall asleep," he promised. He raised the rail, then moved with the gurney as the orderlies hustled it into the elevator, followed by the good doctor. A moment later they were gone.

The phone rang before any of the three who remained could speak. Dixie looked to Johnny, who was closest to it. "Rampart Emergency, Fireman Gage speaking … Yeah, surgery. Wait, what about … Yeah, thanks." He hung up slowly and turned to face the group. "That was the lab. No alcohol. None at all."

Vince broke the heavy silence that had descended upon them. "I'm going to head back to the station. That car she crashed is registered to a Robert B. Patron." Robert Patron. Robert. Rob. No one spoke. No one needed to. Vince turned and followed the girl's father out of the hospital.

**Scene Two**

Darkness had receded by the time they left Rampart. The heat was quickly rising with the light. They had called the squad in available as soon as Missy Tyro had been wheeled into the O.R. but with no calls, for which Roy was especially grateful, had stayed at the hospital until she'd been settled into the recovery room almost two hours later. In one night this 15-year-old child had lost her innocence, her family, and a significant piece of her future. Roy decided he would return to the hospital on his way home to check up on her personally.

"You all right there, Partner?" Roy slid behind the wheel of the squad and sat silently, the key hovering above the ignition. As Johnny got in next to him he prodded, "Roy?"

"Huh?"

"How're you doing?"

Roy sighed. He put the key into the ignition then grabbed the mic. "Squad 51, returning to quarters."

"Squad 51," came the acknowledgment. He started the engine.

"Look, I feel bad for her, too, I really do, but this one's gonna eat you alive."

"How could he do that?"

"Who, her father?"

"Damn right, her father!" Roy shouted. He slipped the truck into gear and pulled out. "How could any father do that," he continued quietly. "I don't care what your religious convictions are or what she's done, you don't turn your back on your child, especially when she's been hurt and especially when she's been hurt like that."

"Roy –"

"She is a child, Johnny. Fifteen is a child. I wonder what he told her mother. You think he went home and told his wife their daughter is dead?"

"Maybe the mother feels the same way he does," Johnny suggested. At the stricken look on Roy's face he immediately regretted it.

"No. I can't believe any mother would feel that way. It's hard enough to believe of a father, but I remember when Anne was pregnant. As much as a child is a part of her father, there's a bond with the mother …"

"Even if she disagrees, do you think a guy like that would have a wife who would act against him?" Johnny studied his partner. "Maybe the mother will be there when you go back."

"How did … I barely made up my mind yet, how did you –"

"I'm your partner." Johnny flashed what he hoped was a supportive smile. "Just be careful."

"Careful? Me? Of what?"

"Rule number one. 'Never get —

— emotionally involved with a patient," they finished in unison. Roy almost smiled himself.

"Hold it! Hold it! Hold it!" Johnny suddenly exclaimed. "Will you look at that!" Just ahead of them was a couple apparently playing tug-of-war with a toddler as the rope. Roy pulled over. In the moment it took them to notice that the woman's clothes were at least two sizes too big and that she appeared not to have bathed in a month she wrested the child from the man's arms, pushed him to the ground and took off running. Like a shot Johnny was racing after her.

Roy grabbed the microphone as he pulled over. "L.A., this is Squad 51. Request police at West Carson Street and Figueroa, possible kidnapping in progress."

"10-4 51."

The man had landed flat on his back. "Why don't you hold still just a minute." Roy was at the man's side attempting to assess his condition. "Can you tell me your name?" Roy had seen his patient tuck his chin and was hopeful that this had prevented a concussion, but when a full minute had passed and the question remained unanswered he began searching for signs of a head injury in earnest. "Your name, Sir," he asked again, "can you tell me your name?"

"Anderson. Ward Anderson." He sat up suddenly, and winced. "Gary!" Roy's hand was on the Ward Anderson's shoulder, gently pushing him back down even as he tried to stand.

"Gary is your son?"

"Garson, yes."

"Mr. Anderson, I know you're worried, but my partner is on it and the police are on their way, so why don't you relax and let me take a look at you, ok?" Ward Anderson looked at Roy with doubt, then nodded and allowed Roy to ease him all the way down then gently roll him to one side to better see his back.

Two police cars pulled up, one immediately took off in the direction Roy and Mr. Anderson indicated, the other left one officer with them, then his partner took off after the others.

The police officer questioned them while Roy continued his examination of Ward Anderson.

"You called in a possible kidnapping," he asked Roy, who nodded. "What happened, Mr. … ?"

"DeSoto. Roy DeSoto."

"Mr. DeSoto —"

"Officer … ?"

"Ted Phillips."

"We were coming to the intersection —"

"'We'?"

"My partner and I, when Joh —"

"Coming from where, which direction?"

"We were coming from Rampart Hospital, headed toward station 51. My partner spotted Mr. Anderson and some woman wrestling over his son. She grabbed the kid and took off. Johnny — that's my partner, he went after them."

"Can you describe the woman?"

"Small, about five foot one or two; very thin; long, stringy hair, maybe light brown, could be blonde, it was pretty dirty. She was pretty dirty, looked like she lives in the street." As he spoke Roy began to gather his patient's vitals while the officer redirected his attention to that man.

"Do you have any idea who this woman might be, Mr. Anderson, or why she might want your son," the officer asked, poised to write down whatever he might be told.

Anderson swallowed, then nodded slowly. "Caprice. Caprice Anderson. She's Gary's mother."

Phillips flipped his notebook closed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Anderson, but if she's his mother then whatever is going on is a matter for the family court."

The pulse beneath Roy's fingertips jumped. "Look," Anderson pleaded, "we're divorced and I have full custody. Caprice is a druggie; she's not supposed to have any contact with us until she can prove she's clean. Even then her visitation is supposed to be supervised, the judge said so. Isn't violating a judge's order a crime?"

The cop shook his head. "I'm sorry, but this is a civil matter."

"Can't you at least help me get him back first?"

"I'm sorry sir, I really am." He did manage to look sympathetic as he radioed his fellow officers. Roy shook his head and found himself wishing Vince had responded to this call. Vince had had to follow the law, too, but he had been willing to work within its boundaries to help Missy Tyro. Now there was a child in the hands of a druggie who had shown herself to be strong and not beyond using violence. Roy's stomach turned as he forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

"Mr. Anderson, please," the paramedic said quietly as his patient tried again to get to his feet. "You went down pretty hard, just let me make sure you're all right. I'm sure my partner will bring your son back," he threw Phillips a hard glance, "and once you have him back safely you can deal with the legal issues."

"Please," for the second time that morning Roy found his arm in a desperate patient's vice-like grasp, "you don't understand. He's my son."

"I do understand." Roy carefully removed the man's hand from his arm even as he helped him to sit down on the rear of the squad. "I have a son. There's nothing I wouldn't do to protect him, and nothing I wouldn't protect him from, not even his own mother." Even as he said the words Roy felt something twist inside. He couldn't imagine ever having to protect their children from JoAnne, but even as he believed it was a need he'd never face, he knew that if such a day should come he would do whatever was necessary to ensure his children's safety. Just recognizing the possibility felt terribly wrong.

Before Roy finished examining Mr. Anderson the police had gone. There was no concussion; he did have minor scrapes to his upper back, which had been protected by his shirt, and more significant scrapes to his unprotected elbows and palms, no other injuries. His blood pressure was a little high, though that was to be expected. The safe return of his son was now solely up to Johnny. _Come on, Junior. Didn't you say something about being a track star in high school? This is the most important race you've ever run. You can win it. You _have_ to win it._

Roy cleaned the abrasions and made Mr. Anderson as comfortable as possible. As the minutes dragged on he continued to monitor the man's vitals, paying particular attention to the BP, which, although at the high end, remained within normal limits. It was nearly twenty minutes after he'd left that Johnny reappeared, still running, the boy in his arms. A moment later Caprice came running after them, barely winded. Johnny's much longer stride was all that allowed him to stay ahead of her. Roy took in Johnny's matted hair and the stains spreading down his chest and under his arms.

Anderson rose to meet Johnny, reaching eagerly for his son. "Thank you, thank you so much."

Johnny thrust the boy at his father, careful to position himself between the Andersons. "Welcome," he said breathlessly, "go!"

Ward Anderson did not need to be told twice. "I'm sorry," he yelled back as he ran, his son wrapped tightly in his arms. A feral scream rang out and suddenly Johnny was face down in the street, what little wind he had left knocked out of him. Caprice was on him, straddling him, pounding him. Roy tried to pull her off. A hard kick to his shin sent him to the pavement alongside his partner. He scrambled to his feet, barely aware of the scrapes to his knees and palms and tried again. He received an elbow to his solar plexus. He finally caught his breath and tried a third time; his efforts were rewarded with five deep scratches down his right forearm. Try as he might, Roy could not move her. _Damn, she's strong. What the hell is she on?_

Johnny struggled to gain his feet. He was able to get to his hands and knees only to have Caprice dig her knees into his sides then drive her heels into his thighs, forcing him back down to his belly. Roy grabbed her firmly around her waist and had nearly pulled her clear when he was stopped as if caught on something. Johnny cried out. Her hands were buried in his hair; as Roy had pulled her back so had she pulled Johnny's head. When Roy loosened his grip she loosened hers; Johnny went down flat. She moved quickly, driving her knees into the small of his back and grasping his hair as if it were the mane of a runaway horse. Roy repositioned himself to keep one arm around her waist, threw the other across her arms and tried again. His arm across hers should have thrown her off balance and loosened her grip. Should have. Roy pulled, her left hand came free; she twisted the fingers of her right hand, painfully wrapping Johnny's hair around them. She then twisted herself around and sank her teeth into Roy's left bicep. Roy grunted, but did not let go. He continued in his efforts to get her off of Johnny, but her hand was too tangled up in his hair. The more Roy pulled, the more Johnny hurt.

Now Roy did release her; he left them long enough to radio for help. When he turned back Johnny had managed to roll himself onto his left side. Four bloody scratches had appeared across his throat and the left pocket of his uniform shirt was torn. Again Roy tried to pull her off. This time Johnny was able to maneuver enough to help. He reached over his head with his right hand and was able to grab her right wrist. She let loose another animalistic scream and reached forward to scratch him again. Before her claw reached his face he was able to pull his left arm out from under his body and grab her left wrist as well. Though his position was awkward it was enough. Roy came up behind her, reached around and took her wrists with his opposite hands. He pulled her arms across her body as he pulled her against him so that he was acting as a human straitjacket.

Johnny got slowly to his feet as the police car pulled up. Officer Ted Phillips emerged from the passenger side as his partner joined them from behind the wheel.

"Look, fellas, I already told you there's noth—" He took in the difference to the scene he had just left. "What happened?"

"She … she tried …" Johnny panted. He moved to the squad and sat heavily on the running board, elbows on knees, head down, working to catch his breath. He waved his hand weakly at Roy. _You tell it. I need a minute here._

"My partner there got the boy back," Roy explained, making no effort to hide his disdain for the policeman. "He's safe, by the way, the kid. He's with his father." The woman in his arms bucked violently against him but Roy held her fast. "Johnny wasn't so lucky. She attacked him. Tell me, is assault still a crime, or do we have to report that to the family court, too?"

Officer Phillips' partner took charge of Caprice. As he escorted her to the squad car Phillips asked, "Assault? I understand your partner believed it was a kidnapping at the time but he did take the woman's child away from her. It's understandable if she got a little physical, but it could be construed as defense of a third party — she was protecting her son, after all."

"Protect —" Roy sucked in his breath and his temper with it. "Maybe Johnny didn't know the relationship, but she did know she had no legal claim to the boy AND Johnny's in uniform. You really believe she thought she was protecting anyone?"

"You do have a point, but how much harm could she really do, she's just a little bit of a thing. Can you really call it an assault, Mr. DeSoto?"

"Officer Phillips, come over here," Roy led the policeman over to Johnny, who was finally beginning to breathe a little easier. "Hey Johnny, look up a second, will ya?" He looked at Roy, making the scratches across his throat clearly visible. Roy just glared at Phillips. "Then there's this," he flicked Johnny's shredded sleeve, revealing the abrasions the pavement had left on the arm. "There's more, and when I tried to stop it," he looked the policeman in the eye then presented his bitten bicep, "I got this for my trouble," he showed the scratches down his arm, "and this." He waited a moment to allow it all to register. "You're the law enforcement officer, you tell me: does this qualify as 'assault'?"

There was silence as Officer Phillips took in the all the harm this one small woman had inflicted. Apparently his partner had been paying attention; they heard him tell Caprice Anderson that she was under arrest for assault, then begin reading her rights.

"At least the kid is safe," said Phillips.

"No thanks to you," Roy added under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Hey, guys," having handcuffed the assailant and returned her to the back of the squad car the second police officer joined them. "I'm Pete," he offered his hand, "Bogart."

Roy smiled and accepted the hand. "Nice to meet you Pete. I'm Roy DeSoto, that's my partner, John Gage." Johnny smiled and waved from his seat on the squad. Although still weary from the run his breathing was much better.

"Obviously you're still on duty," Pete continued. "When do you think you can come to the station house and give us your statements?"

The paramedics exchanged a glance. Johnny shrugged. _Right after shift?_

Roy nodded. _As soon as possible._ He looked at his watch. "We're off in about ninety minutes. We can be there any time after that."

"Good," said Bogart. "We're actually going off shift in half an hour but we're back on at seven tonight, if you could drop by then?"

Roy glanced at Johnny, who nodded, then returned his attention to Officer Bogart. "That's fine. Rampart Division?" Now Bogart nodded.

"And you'll get to the hospital, get those injuries documented," asked Phillips.

"Of course," said Roy. Johnny rolled his eyes. "We'll see you this evening."

"What?" A few minutes after the police had left them Johnny realized how quiet it was. Too quiet. He looked up to find Roy staring at him.

"I was just thinking, maybe you're right."

"I am?" Johnny grinned. "Right about what?"

"Maybe there's more to being a mother than just having a child. I realize her thinking was clouded by whatever she was probably on, but still … she really could have hurt that kid." Johnny chuckled. "What's funny?"

"I was just thinking that you were right. Even with that garbage clouding her mind she wanted her child. Pastor Tyro was stone cold sober when he walked out on his kid, but this mother —"

"Here." Johnny finally noticed the canteen Roy had been holding.

"Thanks"

"You look terrible."

"Thanks a lot. You don't look so great yourself, y'know."

Roy pulled up his blood-stained sleeve and gingerly touched his bicep where Caprice Anderson had bitten him, then looked down at the scratches she'd left on the other arm. "No," he replied with a sad smile, "I guess I don't." He glanced up. "Drink, then let's go get cleaned up."

Johnny groaned, "Back to Rampart."

"Really?" Roy's smile brightened a bit. "You're volunteering to go to the hospital?"

"Not for me, Partner. I'll let them clean me up, but you need to get that bite checked out. Do you know how much bacteria is in the human mouth? Besides that, when was your last tetanus shot?"

"I'm good. How about you?"

"I think I'm good, too." Johnny raised the canteen. "Man, I am beat. What a morning."

He'd barely wet his lips when, "Squad 51, what is your status?"

Roy reached into the squad's open window and grabbed the microphone. "Squad 51 available."

"Squad 51, stand by for response." Roy tapped the canteen, reminding Johnny to drink. He'd managed one sip when the response came: Engine and Squad to a possible drowning not too far from their current location. In seconds they were on their way, the closed canteen forgotten on the seat between them.

**Scene Three**

Minutes later they pulled up to a large laundromat. As they moved to pull out their gear Roy handed Johnny his jacket.

"What's this," he asked even as Roy slid into his own.

"We'll head back to Rampart after this run. For now these will offer at least some protection."

Johnny tipped his head, exposing the scratches on his throat. "Protection? For your arms, maybe, but this?"

"You want to answer the questions?" Johnny sighed as he zipped his jacket so that the tattered sleeve and torn pocket of his uniform shirt would be concealed. He hoisted the oxygen and swayed just a bit. "You ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just a little warm for this time of year."

"Maybe you shouldn't —"

"No, you're right. Even if Cap gets it, Chet'll never let me hear the end of it. Let's do this."

"Come on, Junior." With that they entered the laundry as the engine pulled up to the scene.

Once inside they were met by a heavy-set, middle aged woman in a smock with the name of the laundry above the left breast. "Come," she turned sharply and walked away, obviously expecting them to follow.

"Uh, Ma'am," Johnny attempted to get some information as they hurried after her.

"Come," she repeated. She led them by a few customers to a bank of washing machines against the far wall. In the rear corner, in the machine farthest from the front window, was a slight young man who appeared to be wearing nothing but a necktie. The engine crew joined them just in time for her explanation. "We open at five. I had work in the back; linens, uniforms, the commercial stuff. The industrial machines are back there. It gets loud when those get going, then once the machines up here start you can't really hear nothing so I had no idea anything was wrong until a couple of his friends ran in back looking for the circuit box."

"His friends," Cap asked while Roy and Johnny moved to the washer and its occupant.

"Frat boys," the woman spat. "Apparently they think this," she waved her hand at the young man, "is funny. They put him in there, got the machine going, jammed it up good, too, then couldn't stop it when he got caught. Most of 'em took off but at least a couple of 'em were decent kids."

Roy looked up. "Aren't these machines supposed to stop automatically when they're opened?"

The woman looked at Roy as if that were the most stupid thing she'd ever heard. "I already told you, they jammed it up."

"Why didn't they just unplug it right here," Johnny asked from behind the machine. He wiped the sweat from his brow and pushed his damp hair away from his eyes.

"Too tight. They were big boys, lot's bigger'n you. Don't matter, you got it here and they did back there at the box. Just get him out of there without busting my machine. And plug it back when you're done, I sure can't get back there." A small crowd started filtering into the store. Some were trying to see what was going on but most were customers, carrying baskets or bags of dirty clothes. "I got work to do. I'll be up at the counter if you need me." She left them in a huff.

The neck tie turned out to be a bikini top, a quick glance into the machine revealed he was wearing what appeared to be the suit's bottom and socks, nothing more. The top had caught on the agitator, and pulled tight, tearing the strap around his back. Roy cut the top from around the boy's neck as Johnny rejoined him in front of the machine.

"What's your name?"

"Suzie," he replied without looking up. Finally he did, relieved to see patience in Roy's face and no sign of ridicule. He added something, but the noise level was rising as the customers began doing their laundry.

"It's Stewart," he repeated as loudly as he dared, "but the guys can't know I said so."

Roy smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry. Let's just get you out of here, ok? Are you hurt anywhere?"

He shook his head. "Not hurt, but my foot's caught."

"Hey, help, please." Suddenly a large young man appeared behind them. He grabbed Johnny's arm and pulled at him. He stood about two inches shorter than John but was broad-shouldered, thick through the chest and well-muscled. He nearly pulled Johnny off his feet.

"Whoa, hold it! Help what, tell me what's wrong."

"My buddy," came the reply. "When Su — Stew here got caught we went for the circuit breaker. It was the only way we could stop it. Now my buddy's caught between one of those big machines and the wall. Please help me get him out." He continued tugging at Johnny's arm.

"Stupid stunt," Chet muttered.

"Gage, Kelly," ordered Cap.

"No! I mean, Jack's not hurt, he's just stuck, and I almost got him but I'm just too big. I just need one guy to help me, someone who can fit." He looked at Johnny, then Cap. "Please, the rest of you just help Stewie."

"Cap?"

With a nod from Cap Johnny accompanied the young man to the back room. Roy thought he saw fear flash across Stewie's face as his friend led Johnny away but it passed quickly and the boy smiled at him. With help from the Engine 51 crew Roy set about freeing his victim.

"I'm Erik," offered the boy.

"Johnny Gage. Don't worry, Erik, we'll take care of your friend."

The back room was slightly smaller than the front, with fewer though much larger machines. Two of the massive washing machines were running. Combined with the noise coming from the front Johnny had to shout to be heard.

"Where's your friend," he asked, looking around. He stepped further into the room and spotted the circuit box on the wall between the washers and industrial dryers. The space around it was clear, allowing easy access. He turned angrily and was nose to nose with Erik. "What's going on, where is your friend?"

"Right here," a voice growled in Johnny's ear. He spun around to find himself looking up at what he could only describe as a bear. Jack was easily half a foot taller than Johnny and more muscular than Erik. Johnny tried to back away but Erik blocked him. "You're very pretty …" he looked to Erik.

"Johnny," Erik supplied.

Jack's smile sent a chill through John. "You're very pretty, _Janey_."

Erik grabbed Johnny's arms and pinned them tight behind him. "Cap," Johnny yelled as he tried to free himself. "Hey, Cap!"

"Cap. Hey, Cap. Oh, Ca-ap," Jack yelled even louder. "Keep screaming there, Janey. No one can hear you." He unzipped Johnny's jacket, ran his hands slowly up Johnny's chest and slid the jacket off his shoulders. "Look, Erik. Janey is already hot for me." Sweat had plastered Johnny's shirt to his body. Jack grabbed the back of Johnny's head, which fit easily in the large hand, and, despite Johnny's efforts, pulled him close as if to kiss. With their lips almost touching Jack burst out laughing, then slipped his arm around John's waist and held him fast while Erik yanked off the jacket. "You're so pretty. Nice, trim figure. Shiny hair," he ran his fingers through Johnny's hair, "Soft, too." When Johnny shook his head fiercely against the touch Jack laughed even harder. "Come on, Janey, dance with me." With his right arm still firmly around Johnny's waist Jack grabbed John's right hand with his left and began waltzing him around the room. The next thing Johnny knew Jack's hand crept down his back and paused at his waistband before slipping into his back pocket. He continued struggling but the kid was so strong. _He's not a kid. _ No, these were not kids. College students were adults. A fraternity prank, the manager had said. These guys were upper-classmen; that made them and Johnny about the same age.

Johnny squirmed and fought until the hand in his back pocket clamped down hard and pulled him close to the other's body. He wanted to throw up. He was dipped and spun and before he could pull away Erik grabbed him and wrapped both his arms firmly around Johnny's waist and pulled him close. Jack moved in from behind and squeezed him between them. The noise and the heat from the two machines running in this room and drifting in from the front were making John dizzy. Being pressed between these two hulking men made breathing difficult; the feeling of their bodies on his and the smell of them made him gag. His vision was blurred by the sweat running into his eyes. He felt hands on his hips, then Jack's hands were in Johnny's front pockets. John stiffened and renewed his struggle. Jack leaned in close, hands digging deeper into the pockets. Johnny felt the tongue run up his cheek as the hands in his pockets grabbed and groped. With a burst of strength Johnny threw his head back. He felt it connect. The hands in his pockets withdrew. A yelp of pain came from behind him. The grip around his waist loosened just a little.

"What'd you do that for," Jack sounded genuinely surprised. "It was just a joke, Man. We weren't going to hurt you."

Erik moved toward his companion, Johnny lunged for the door. A powerful hand grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled hard. Which one had done it he never knew. He was on the floor, looking up at them. Jack's hands were at his nose, which was bleeding profusely. He looked down at John sadly. Erik looked furious. Johnny tried to get up; Erik's foot on his chest sent him crashing back to the floor.

"Man, we were just playing with you."

"Playing? ... Play —"

"Let's just finish this," Erik snarled. He grabbed Johnny around his thighs and lifted, then Jack grabbed him under his shoulders and together they carried him toward the washers. Blood from Jack's nose dripped into John's hair and onto his face. Johnny thrashed wildly against them but they only tightened their grips.

"I have a better idea," said Jack. "He's already all wet. Let's dry him off."

Erik grinned evilly. "Yeah. Besides, he's a fireman, they like the heat." With that they moved toward the dryers. Johnny bucked and thrashed harder. They held tight, squeezing him painfully. He managed to pull off his badge and pins. They opened one of the large dryers, threw him inside and quickly sealed him in. They peered in at him. _How long have we been back here? Please, guys, Roy, you've got to miss me by now._ He watched them step back and reach for the controls. As quickly as he could he pulled his knife and scissor case from his belt and stuffed them into his pocket. He curled himself into a ball, squeezed his eyes shut and wrapped his right arm around them, then tucked his chin as close to his chest as he could and held his head there with his left hand.

Slowly at first, the tumbler began to turn.


	4. Act III

**ACT III**

**Scene One**

The manager shot Vince a hard look when he entered the laundry. Having spotted Roy and the others he ignored her and went directly to them.

"Aren't you off," Roy asked after perfunctory greetings had been exchanged.

"I was heading back to the station when this call came in," Vince explained. "What's going on?"

"Hazing," Cap replied with disgust, and quickly filled him in.

Vince turned his attention to Stewart. The rescued boy was now seated in one of the hard, plastic chairs scattered about for customers to use while they waited for their laundry. A blanket retrieved from the squad was wrapped around his shoulders. His foot had been caught under the agitator, which had to be removed to free him. Despite her anger the manager had brought over clean clothes for him to wear. "Anything left here more than two weeks is forfeit," she'd explained. "We usually donate it, but there's always something around and it's always clean. Here," and she'd tossed a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants at him. Stewart's neck was badly bruised where the bathing suit had pulled taut and he had two broken toes but was otherwise uninjured and had insisted he would go to his own doctor. Roy knelt beside him as he recovered from his ordeal. Though chilled at first there was no sign of shock and his shivering had ceased before Vince arrived.

"I need some information for my report. What's your name?"

"Stewart Zeciak." He confirmed his age as eighteen, his status as a student and his address as the fraternity house. The questions turned to the incident at hand and Stewart grew vague. When asked the names of the others involved he stayed silent.

"I understand you want to protect your friends," Vince patiently assured him. "If you refuse to file a complaint I don't suppose I can force you. I do have to fill out this report and I expect the management here will hold them responsible for the damage to the machine."

"That's all," Stewart asked quietly, "just the washing machine?"

Vince nodded. "If you won't press charges then yes, just the machine."

"And my name can stay out of it?"

"I have to put it in my report, and if the management here does decide to pursue the matter then it will be up to them."

Stewart seemed to be thinking it over when Roy offered, "Vince, a couple of the other kids are still here. From what the manager said, they're not the trouble makers. In fact, they tried to help."

"Good. That's good, thanks Roy." Vince looked around but saw only women and a few elderly men doing their laundry. "Where are they?"

"Back room. They went for the circuit breaker when their friend here got caught, then one of them got stuck. Johnny's back there now helping them out."

Cap glanced at his watch. "What's keeping Gage anyway? Didn't that boy say his friend was practically clear already?" The corner of his mouth twitched toward a smile. Gage was a good man but he was young and eager, and thought he could handle anything. _It wouldn't kill the kid to ask for a little help._ Captain Hammer turned to his men. "Stoker, you and Kelly go see what the hold up is."

As his crewmates went off, Roy's attention was drawn back to his charge. "What? What's wrong?" Stewart was terrified.

"He won't get it," he mumbled. "They think it's funny, but if he fights … they wouldn't." He shook his head, slowly at first, then faster and faster as if he could shake the thought and eliminate the reality.

Roy grabbed Stewart's shoulders to still him. "They wouldn't what? What won't he get?"

As if in response, the boy who had come for Johnny barreled into the main room of the laundry, immediately followed another, larger boy, then Stoker just a few steps behind. "Stop him," Mike shouted just before flinging himself at the larger boy and taking him down with a flying tackle. The first boy never broke stride, but Vince and Marco were across the store in no time, blocking the exit.

With Marco right behind him Vince marched the boy back toward his friend, who was rising carefully under Stoker's watchful eye. Both boys were then directed to a pair of the plastic chairs. They eyed the door sullenly, but whether it was because they were outnumbered or merely in response to police authority, they sat down quietly. Stoker stepped over and angrily snatched something out of the smaller boy's hand.

The rage in Mike's eyes belied the calm in his voice. "Marco, we need a backboard and splints back there, and burn packs, too, I think. I'll get Roy." Marco headed out; Mike glared at the boys as he said to Vince, "They tried to kill him." He pressed the item he had taken from the boy into Vince's hand.

Mike turned toward Roy, but, before he could call out, half the lights, washers, and dryers died. A moment later, over the din of the machines still going, those winding down and the complaining of the customers, Chet's voice rang out loud and clear and panic-stricken. "Roy," he hollered, "hey DeSoto, you better get back here. And bring your gear!" Roy snatched up the drug box and biophone and ran for the back with Cap right behind carrying the rest. Mike hurried out after Marco.

Roy and Cap found Chet struggling to open one of the dryers. Just a minute before he had come into this room, a few steps ahead of Stoker. The frat boys had been standing in front of that dryer, looking and laughing as if the glass was a television screen on which they were watching _I Love Lucy_. The shorter of two was fingering the silver prize he held. On the floor at their feet was a blood-soaked Los Angeles County Fire Department uniform jacket.

It took only seconds for the firemen to realize what had happened, what was still happening to their friend. Before they could act, the shorter boy had shoved Kelly aside and both boys had flown for the door. With a cry of, "Go!" from Chet, Mike was hot on their heels. Chet recovered his feet quickly and moved to the dryer. The door wouldn't open. This wasn't like the machines he knew, like the ones up front that opened easily and immediately began slowing to a stop. He had looked to the control panel; no off switch. He'd tried turning the timer back to zero but still the drum kept turning. With no time to waste figuring it out, Chet had moved to the circuit box and flipped the breakers until the dryer imprisoning Johnny began to slow. The irony of helping John this way was not lost on Chet but there was no time to contemplate that now. He ran to the doorway to summon the others, then immediately returned to the dryer. The tumbler was slowing, stopping, but still the door would not open.

Cap pulled out the handie-talkie to report the Code I and request an ambulance.

As Roy set up the biophone he spotted the laundry manager at the room's entrance. "How hot is this machine?"

"It … uh … it depends —"

"How hot!?"

She stepped over and glanced at the setting. Maximum. She swallowed hard. "The heating element outside the drum heats to 210 degrees."

"Roy," Chet asked, the fear he'd felt when they'd discovered Johnny, the horror of being unable to free him immediately and the dread of what they would find once he was free all revealing themselves in that single word.

"I know. Just —" Roy nodded to the dryer. _Just keep working._ His knuckles were white as he gripped the biophone receiver. "Squad 51," he said around the lump in his throat, "how do you read, Rampart?"

"We read you, 51." Dixie's voice was comforting; Roy took solace in her presence, even over the com. _Keep it professional._ That was best, for all of them. First, basic patient information: age and gender, weight and build. Next, details of patient's status and condition.

"Rampart, victim is trapped in an industrial clothes dryer; it was running and the temperature inside was possibly as high as 210 degrees. This is information only, Rampart; we are working to free the victim now. He —" Roy cleared his throat, "he's sealed in."

"10-4 51, standing by."

While Roy was communicating with the hospital Mike and Marco entered with the backboard and what seemed to be all of the medical equipment that had been in the squad. Mike also carried a pry bar. _Please G-d, let this not be what it has to be, _Marco sent up a silent prayer._ Please let it be anything else_. Mike, pry bar in hand, stepped over to Chet. With a single touch to his shoulder Chet moved aside to allow Mike access to the dryer door.

Mike quickly broke the seal, Chet yanked open the door. The first thing to hit him was the smell. It filled his nose, his mouth, even his eyes. He'd been on the front lines in war and fire, he'd seen men burned, he'd smelled charred flesh. This was different. He swallowed back the rising bile. "They … they cooked him," he choked out, horrified. He wanted to run; he stepped aside for Roy and awaited instructions.

Careful to not touch the hot metal, Roy pushed through the smell and the heat and leaned into the dark interior of the large dryer. "Johnny, can you hear me?" The only response was short, sharp, shallow breaths. Johnny was listing drunkenly to the right, curled up tight, his arms wrapped protectively around his head. Even in the dimness Roy could make out the red cast of John's skin and the unnatural angle of his left forearm. "Johnny, where are you hurt?" He reached for his partner, who recoiled from his touch. "Johnny, can you hear me? Let me take a look." Again Roy reached for him. John moaned softly; Roy was certain he heard _No_. "I'm going to get you out of here but I need your help." _Did he shake his head?_ "Johnny, do you hear me?" Nothing. He reached out and touched John's knee; Johnny flinched and pulled away from him. "John, look at me," Roy demanded. "Gage!"

Johnny started. He dropped his left arm and grunted harshly when it hit his knees. In the shadows his arms appeared strangely bent, his hands gnarled. He moved his right arm just an inch when another moan escaped him. Slowly, he lowered the arm to rest by his side. His eyes did not open. "R-Roy?" he choked out.

"Yeah, Partner, it's me. Where are you hurt?"

"Roy? … H-hurt? No, I … not … wait, what?" _Confusion, disorientation,_ Roy noted.

"Johnny, listen to me. You're pretty banged up. You've got to let me help you; we're going to get you out of here."

"Out … Out?" Johnny's breathing became increasingly labored, his chest heaved from the effort. "Out! Got to … get out! … I'M HERE!" he yelled, as much as his parched throat would allow. His terror reached his friends as the drum magnified his voice. "I'm here!" he panted. "ROY? … I'M HERE! … WHERE THE HELL … ARE YOU GUYS?! … GET … ME … OUT OF … HERE!" Using the last of his strength, Johnny called weakly, "Help. … Guys. … Pl-please!" He brought both arms back up to protect his head, seemingly unaware they were injured.

Johnny's head jerked abruptly, his arms dropped back to his sides, his breath hitched; he retched once, twice, then vomited violently. Roy clenched his teeth, laid one hand on John's back and held his head with the other, maintaining his patient's upright and slightly forward position. The smell of the vomitus mingled with the odors in the dryer, doubling then tripling as it hit the hot metal.

"Anchor me!" Roy yelled suddenly. Hands steadied Roy's hips and back as he supported John. It was too dark inside the dryer for Roy to read his watch. He had no idea how long the convulsion lasted. A minute? An hour? Forever. Roy held on, being as gentle as he could with Johnny's broken left ulna and, he found on the right, dislocated shoulder and broken humerus. _Damn!_ Something snapped. A rib._ Hang on, Johnny. _When it was over Johnny's limbs continued twitching. There were three broken bones and a dislocated joint that Roy knew of, each painful under the best of circumstances, not the least of which was the patient remaining still. The heat emanating from Johnny was palpable, even inside the still hot dryer. There was nothing to be done as long as Johnny was inside this machine. It was time to get him out. "Hey, Cap."

"What do you need, DeSoto," Cap asked. His voice was steady, grounded. Roy clung to that.

"Backboard and ice. Lot's of ice."

Marco stepped in as close as he could with the backboard to the dryer opening to help Roy move John out. Chet took a step toward the doorway where the manager still lingered. "Where can we get ice?"

She shook her head. "You can't, not around here, not now. Nothing's open yet."

"Hey Mike," Chet called, "can you give me a hand? Bring the pry bar." He went directly to the manager, moved in close to her and spoke with an eerie calm. "I saw a soda machine up front. That's refrigerated. We need the key and something for carrying. Or my friend here can just open it the same way he opened that damn dryer."

"The key is in the office." She hurried out. Mike clapped Chet's back as they followed her.

"Biophone," Roy called to his captain. He turned to Marco. "Keep his neck straight, and watch his back; watch out for his back, neck, right shoulder – it's dislocated, and his arms. They're both broken, and one rib for sure."

While Roy and Marco maneuvered Johnny onto the backboard Cap picked up the receiver. "Rampart, this is Squad 51."

"Go ahead, 51," came the calm, sure voice of Dr. Early.

"Rampart, the victim is being extricated now." Cap relayed the information exactly as Roy laid it out. "He has vomited once and experienced a convulsion. There is continued twitching in the extremities. Broken left ulna, right humerus and dislocated right shoulder. Broken right fourth rib. Skin is red and dry. Stand by."

Mike and Chet returned carrying laundry sacks filled with ice-cold pop.

Hours passed in the minutes since Mike and Chet had stumbled onto the scene in the back room of the laundry. How long had Johnny been here before they had; how long had he been in the dryer before his friends found him; how long had he been battered and cooked before they were able to get him out?

Roy worked quickly and efficiently, with a confidence he did not feel. He watched from a distance. He looked on as his hands cut away Johnny's uniform.

A pall fell over the men. Johnny's head was caked with blood that had browned as it heated; his fingers were mangled and bright red with bits of white peeking through; both ankles were swollen and purple, his left foot turned awkwardly. Burns were revealing themselves, white and red even against already reddened skin. His back, sides, arms, and shins were various shades from dark pink to nearly black. In the middle of his chest the crimson and burgundy came together in the shape of a foot. His body was a hideous rainbow of pain. Stoker was the first to speak. "What the hell did they do to him?"

"Rampart, vital signs are: pulse 150 and thready, respirations 40 and shallow, BP is 80 over 40. Pupils are dilated and reactive, temperature 104. Be advised spinal precautions have been taken however patient has responded to touch to the extremities and there was voluntary movement prior to the convulsion." It was a smooth, professional voice relaying Johnny's information to the doctor, first his vital signs and status, then the litany of his injuries: bloody scalp, broken bones — so many broken bones, hematomas, dislocation, sprain, abdominal rigidity, hyperthermia, burns. Roy couldn't bear to listen anymore when the voice calmly started using terms like "stuperous" and "possible head injury" and "pain" and he especially didn't want to listen when Johnny groaned and Cap asked about giving him something for that pain and that same calm, professional voice, Roy's own voice, explained that he couldn't do that.

Dr. Early's orders were followed; when the ambulance finally arrived seconds later Johnny was ready for transport. His face was obscured by the oxygen mask; his hands and arms were dressed and splinted; his shoulder was immobilized; his ribs were wrapped, his ankles splinted. He was covered by a sterile sheet, wet with saline. He was strapped to the backboard, even his head, held to the board with Kerlix, keeping his neck clear for the ordered I.V.'s that had been established there; the bp cuff was still around his leg. Carefully placed at his neck, armpits, and groin were the cold cans of pop.

Roy thought he heard Cap's voice as Johnny was placed on the stretcher. He was vaguely aware of Chet immediately behind him as they followed the stretcher through the laundry. He thought he saw some police going to the back room as the firemen left it. Though relieved the path to the ambulance was clear, he took no notice that the crowd in the front room and on the sidewalk outside had parted before them like the Red Sea. He placed the cases he carried into the ambulance and climbed aboard. He paid no mind to the squad pulling into traffic behind the ambulance and never saw the unmarked police sedan that followed. _Hold on, Junior. Just hold on._

**Scene Two**

"Ice bath is ready, Doctor."

"Get X-ray in here."

"Orthopedics is standing by."

"And page Dr. Brackett!"

Familiar phrases spoken by familiar voices droned in Roy's ears as the medical staff, including Dr. Early and Dixie, descended upon Johnny like vultures. Roy shuddered and closed his eyes against the image. _Vultures descend on corpses. Johnny's not dead yet. NO! He's alive. He's hyperthermic, he's burned, and he's beat all to hell but he's alive. Please, G-d, if you're listening, please —_

There was a touch on his arm. Dixie. What was she saying? Her voice was soothing; the words didn't matter. A tug on his arm, a light push at his back, a glimpse of Dr. Brackett rushing by in response to the page, a gentle push downward on his shoulder, then he was seated at the table in the lounge, a cup of coffee before him. He shoved it aside and folded his arms on the table. Dixie's voice again, then Chet's. _Chet?_ When he looked up he was alone.

He scrubbed his face with his palms. _What were they thinking? The washing machine stunt is stupid enough, but a dryer? Dumb kids! Why would they hurt someone like that? Why Johnny? We should have seen it; we should have known something was up. We should have missed you sooner, Junior. _I_ should have missed you. I'm sorry, Johnny._ Roy closed his eyes and sighed heavily. A second sigh turned to a yawn as his head slowly dropped onto his folded arms.

"_Hold it! Hold it! Hold it!" Johnny exclaimed. "Will you look at that!" Following Johnny's gaze, Roy saw two people fighting for the toddler between them, each with a firm grasp on him._

_Roy grabbed the microphone as he pulled over. "L.A., this is Squad 51. Request police at West Carson Street and Figueroa, possible kidnapping in progress."_

"_10-4 51."_

_Roy approached the pair with caution, careful not to do anything that might further endanger the child. As he drew near he saw that Johnny was one of the men fighting for the boy. The other man was about two inches shorter than John, but larger in every other way, and obviously very strong. Roy's approach distracted him for just a moment; Johnny used it to his advantage and snatched the boy. The chase was on!_

_Sirens approached. The police! Roy's relief was short-lived. The cruiser slowed just long enough for the officers inside to sadly shake their heads at him before speeding off._

_Johnny returned, still running, still holding the little boy close. A second man had joined the first in the pursuit. He was even larger than his friend. They were chatting between them as if out for a morning stroll. _Why are you here, Junior? Why didn't you keep going? You're faster. Why didn't you get away? You were safe._ As they drew near Roy gasped. How could he have not seen it? The boy clutched to Johnny's chest was Chris! Roy took in John's matted hair and the stains spreading down his chest and under his arms. He met Johnny and reached eagerly for his son. "Thank you, Partner. Thank you."_

_Johnny thrust Chris at his father, deliberately placing himself between the junior DeSoto and their pursuers. _ _"Welcome, Partner," he said breathlessly. "Go!"_

_The two large men surrounded Johnny as Roy turned away, clinging desperately to his son. He caught one last glimpse of his partner as the larger of the two put John into a full nelson. Behind him, Roy heard the unmistakable thump of a fist connecting with a body. Again. And again. And again. He then heard the snap of breaking bone. Johnny grunted but did not call out. He did not ask for help. _Thank you, Junior._ After strapping Chris into the booster seat in the passenger side of the squad, Roy drove away._

_Cap entered from his office and sat down at the table as his men bustled about putting dinner out. Mike was putting the finishing touches on the salad, Marco put out the dishes and utensils, while Roy drew milk and juice from the refrigerator. Chet was pulling on the oven door but it stuck. Cap glanced at his watch. "What's keeping_ _Gage?" His inquiry was met with shrugs and blank stares._

"_Hey Stoker," called Chet, "give me a hand here, will you?"_

_A tap on his shoulder from Mike and Chet stepped aside. Mike yanked open the oven door; a horrific smell filled the kitchen. Roy looked over just in time to see Johnny's roasted body tumble from the oven._

_The squad pulled up at the scene of the single vehicle MVA, the engine just behind. The front end of what had once been a beautiful 1967 Plymouth Barracuda was crushed against the wall of an abandoned warehouse._

"_What have we got," asked Cap._

"_Drunk driver," Vince replied. "Just a kid, from the looks of it, but I can't get close. I tried a couple of times, the kid got hysterical."_

_Vince was right, the driver looked just about eighteen. Roy rushed to the car. "Johnny, can you hear me," he asked the driver. "Johnny, I'm going to take your vitals now. Easy does it." He took Johnny's wrist but John snatched it back._

"_No," Johnny moaned._

"_Come on, Junior," Roy coaxed, "just let me check you out and then we'll get you out of here."_

_Johnny's breathing grew ragged. "Out … Out? … Out! Got to … get out! ROY?" he yelled. "WHERE THE HELL … ARE YOU?! … GET … ME … OUT OF … HERE!" His strength spent Johnny panted out a whisper, "Help. … Roy. … Pl-please! … Roy? … Roy!"_

"Roy. Roy? Roy." Calling his name. _Johnny!_ Shaking him. Someone was shaking his shoulder. Had he really fallen asleep? Thank goodness, just a bad dream; maybe it was all just a very bad dream. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked up into the concerned face of Dr. Brackett. _No, not a dream._

"How is he?" Brackett sat down and slid a fresh cup of coffee toward Roy. He ignored it. "Johnny?" With just a nod at the cup the doctor insisted. Roy sipped. Brackett gave the slightest shake of his head as Roy moved to put the cup down, forcing another sip.

The door opened. Roy's anger flared at being interrupted before even getting started, then faded as fast as it had risen when Chet entered the room. "Doc" Chet came over and stood behind his crewmate. "Roy," he clapped Roy's arm in greeting. Roy flinched and gasped at the sudden pain.

"Roy?" Brackett was beside him. Roy rose slowly and removed his jacket.

"What happened," Chet demanded.

"Come on," said Brackett before Roy could reply, "let's get a better look." He led the firemen to the hallway. "Hey Dix," he called, "what's available?"

"Treatment three." One look from Kel had told her who the patient was. She was at the door to the treatment room in a moment, holding it for them.

Once the doctor had given them the once over, Dixie quickly cleaned the abrasions on Roy's palms, then cleaned and bandaged the scratches on his right arm while Brackett took a closer look at the bite on his left. "This is infected. You should have said something."

"I know." At least Brackett didn't ask why he hadn't. Roy felt the prick of the antibiotic injection. He turned to see Dixie smiling at him as she put a band-aid on the injection site.

"Tetanus is up to date?" He nodded. She made some notes in the chart, passed it to Dr. Brackett, then moved on to cleaning the bite.

"You're off now, right," Brackett asked, looking from Roy to Chet. For the first time since he'd joined them, Roy realized Chet was wearing civvies.

"Yeah," Chet answered, "today and tomorrow."

Brackett nodded. "Good." He turned his attention back to Roy. "How'd it happen?"

He wanted to hear about Johnny but, understanding the doctor's need for information and remembering the need to document the injuries attributable to Caprice Anderson, he began. "When we left here after Missy Tyro's surgery — how is she? Has her mother shown up yet?"

"Physically she'll recover, eventually. She's unresponsive, but with all she's been through … we'll just have to wait and see," Brackett provided.

Dixie added, "No visitors yet, but we did get a call from a woman looking for her. Something tells me that was the mother. At least I hope so."

Roy nodded, still hoping the mother would show up, disappointed but not surprised that she hadn't. "We were headed back to the station when Johnny spotted a couple fighting over a child – their son. Not just arguing, mind you, fighting. Mother turned out to be a junkie and she won. She hit the father hard enough to knock him down, grabbed the kid and took off. Johnny went after her and got the kid back."

Roy stopped, visions playing in his mind of the animal that had once been a woman driving Johnny to the pavement, tearing at his hair and clothes and throat.

"The kid bit you," Chet guessed, prompting him to continue.

"Johnny brought the kid back and gave him to his father. The mother wasn't happy. She attacked." He threw a look to Chet, but he was listening intently with no sign of mischief. _I should have known. Chet can be a jerk sometimes, but he's ok._ "Whatever she was on made her real strong. She went after Gage; I tried to pull her off …"

"She bit you," Dixie finished when Roy trailed off.

"Roy," said Dr. Brackett with controlled anger, "I understand what kind of morning it's been but do you realize how much bacteria is in a human bite? And if she was a junkie, I'm sure proper dental hygiene was not a priority."

"I know," Roy's temper finally showed itself. "Do you? Johnny ran after this woman to help a child. We'd been on consecutive runs since about one this morning, it was hot and he ran after her and ran back carrying the kid. He ran for almost twenty minutes. Then she attacked him. I tried to pull her off and she did this," he held up his arms. "And those scratches across Johnny's throat, Doc, she did that, too. She was out of her mind on something and she attacked him!"

Dixie, Dr. Brackett, and Chet were staring at him. "Roy," Dixie ventured.

Again his anger left him as quickly as it had come, the energy spent like a wave that had just crashed on the shore. "I'm sorry. It was a rescue; I was bitten. Please, Doc, just tell us how Johnny's doing." He could feel Chet holding back his questions as Brackett spoke. He knew that the "med-speak" sent most of the conversation over Chet's head and he appreciated the man's restraint. "Can I see him?"

Brackett was shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Roy, but we have him in isolation. The risk of infection in his current condition is just too high. He wouldn't know you're there anyway."

Chet clamped his mouth shut with an audible click, locking in the final question. If any of the others noticed they did not acknowledge it.

"I understand," Roy conceded sadly. "Whatever's best for Johnny, right?" Brackett smiled, grateful for that understanding. "You'll let me know when." It wasn't a request.

"Of course." He accepted a bottle of pills from Dixie and made his own notes in the chart before passing the bottle to Roy. "Take these. Twice a day with food, so one with breakfast and one with dinner starting with dinner tonight. And come see me tomorrow afternoon. I want to take a look at that arm before your next shift."

"He'll be here," Chet assured the doctor when Roy remained silent.

As they moved into the hallway Roy to turned to Brackett once more. "Doc, I —"

"I've seen it before, mostly fraternities, even a few sororities and some high-schoolers. Lots of nausea, vertigo, some bumps and bruises. These kids think it's funny; they don't understand how dangerous it can be. This is the first time I know of that they left the heat on but it was bound to happen sooner or later and I'm sure it will happen again. Careless. Stupid. Stupid and dangerous!" He shook his head in disgust. "By the way, what was that with the pop?"

"No ice available," Chet shrugged.

"Good thinking." Chet grinned, glad he'd been able to provide that little extra help. "You did a good job out there. I know it was rough; each injury exacerbates the others. You guys did great. Now it's my turn."

**Scene Three**

They bypassed the emergency vehicles area by the ER door where the squad would ordinarily have been parked. Still lost in thought, it wasn't until they reached Chet's car that Roy put that together with how Chet was dressed. Chet caught the look on his face.

"When we were leaving the scene, Cap said since it was already after shift change that once the docs had Gage I should bring the squad back ASAP and pick you up after. You had the follow-up and he figured you'd want to be here until there was word on Johnny anyway. I came and told you I was leaving."

"I'm sorry, Chet. I —"

"It's ok." The ride back to the station began in silence, each man's mind still on the events of the morning. "It was a real bad scene." Roy just nodded. "I should've gone."

"Gone where?"

"When that kid – Jack?" Chet searched his memory. "No, that was the friend. I know I heard him give Gage his name. Erik! That's it! When that Erik first asked for help Cap wanted us both to go. Maybe if I had —"

"Stop it," Roy snapped.

"What'd I say?"

Roy took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "It's not your fault, not now and not then. Cap changed the order; you were going to disobey an order?"

"Are you saying it was Cap's fault?"

"No. It's just … yeah, you could've gone with them, or Cap could have sent you instead. That could be you back at Rampart right now, or any of us. That kid said he just needed one guy. He grabbed Johnny. And we bought it, all of us – including Johnny.

"Why didn't he take off as soon as he saw there was no victim? Why didn't he call us if he was in trouble?"

Chet's knuckles whitened as anger tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "You think this was Gage's fault?"

"No! Of course not!" Another deep breath, released more slowly, deliberately. "I don't know why they picked Johnny. What that Erik said he needed him for … it was simple. It would've only taken a minute. If it got complicated Johnny would've come for help, or at least tools. We didn't miss him, Chet. _I_ didn't miss him. He's my partner and I didn't even realize how long he'd been gone."

They had arrived at the station. Roy moved to get out of the car but Chet grabbed his arm. It was somehow comforting. He thought of Missy Tyro's hand there, and Ward Anderson's. Chet wanted nothing from him. For the first time that day the hand on his arm was to give him something and he knew what Chet was about to say.

"It's not your fault either, Roy. It's not Cap's or mine; it sure as hell isn't Johnny's. It's those two college guys, nobody else."

"I know. I just … I can't stop thinking —"

"I know, me too. Come on, everyone's waiting." Roy knew Captain Hammer would have waited for him; he brightened upon hearing the whole crew was there. "There's a detective here, he was interviewing us, wants to talk to you, too." Roy felt his body as well as his spirit sag at the disappointment that police questions were the only thing that had kept the crew there. "The guys all wanted to swing by the hospital but the cop kept us here. Even gave me a hard time until Cap told him I was going to get you. I guess since no one could see Gage anyway it worked out ok."

"Yeah," Roy's smile held no sadness. He regretted his momentary doubt and shook it off quickly. This really was a great crew. "It's ok."

Roy headed toward the door that would take him directly into the kitchen but Chet stopped him. "You look awful. Go get cleaned up, change your clothes, take a shower, heck, take a nap! Whatever you need. It's been a long morning and it was longer for you. The guys'll understand."

"But they'll want to know about Gage."

"_I_ want to know about Gage. I didn't understand half of what the doc told us. But I know he's alive, and I know he's got the best doctor in L.A. taking care of him. Besides, if we waited this long, we can wait a little longer."

"Thanks, Chet."

**Scene Four**

Fifteen minutes later Roy joined his shift mates in the kitchen. He had taken Chet's advice and grabbed a quick shower. He had planned to wait until he got home and was already looking forward to a long, hot shower there, but when he peeled off his uniform he found himself transfixed by the blood. His own blood on the sleeves of his uniform and T-shirt; Johnny's blood on the front of both shirts and the jacket. When he spotted the vomit on his shoes and the cuffs of his pants he was overwhelmed by the need to wash off some of this horrifying shift.

Arms outstretched and braced against the shower walls to keep his bandaged wounds dry, Roy bowed his head and let the water rush down his back. After a few minutes he raised his face directly into the stream. He lost himself in the feeling of the water as it hit his face and throat and made its way down body. When he looked down he saw pink spinning down the drain. Johnny's blood. He wished he could wash this whole day away so easily.

He stayed there, watching until the water ran clear. Finally, he ended his shower and got dressed, leaving his soiled uniform on the floor beneath his locker.

As he crossed the bay he paused to look around. It all looked so normal. He spotted movement in Cap's office: C-shift's captain. The squad was nowhere to be seen, but that wasn't unusual. The only indication that anything was out of the ordinary was the engine parked in the driveway rather than the bay. The C-shift engine crew was working very hard scrubbing her and not looking at him. Beyond them the sun was shining and birds were singing and people moved about like they did on any ordinary day. Roy squared his shoulders and headed to the dayroom.

Cap, the crew, and a man Roy had never seen before were seated around the table. Cap and the stranger rose when he entered. "Roy," Cap came over to him. "How are you holding up?" Roy just nodded and let Cap guide him to a seat. On either side, Mike and Marco immediately pulled their chairs closer. Seated on the far side of Mike, Chet, too, moved his chair in toward Roy. Cap stood behind him, his hand resting lightly on his paramedic's shoulder. "Roy DeSoto, this is Detective McCluskey. Detective, this is Firefighter/Paramedic Roy DeSoto."

"Mr. DeSoto," the detective said by way of greeting. He appeared to be about Cap's age, but where Captain Hammer was solidly built and sported a full head of dark hair, Detective McCluskey carried the beginnings of a spare tire common to once athletic men; his gray hair was thinning though he compensated with a thick, neatly trimmed gray mustache. Even his eyes were gray. His slacks and sport jacket where gray as well, as if he were attempting to personify the old cliché of a "steely cop". He did not offer his hand.

"Detective," Roy returned.

"There was really no need to drag this out."

"What are you talking about?"

"If you had just spoken to me at the hospital we could have already disposed of this matter."

"Disposed of —" Roy sputtered. Cap gripped his shoulder ever so slightly. "You mean the assault on my partner? Is that the matter you're so eager to 'dispose of'?"

"If you want to look at it that way," McCluskey replied dispassionately. "I was referring to your interview."

"I never knew you were at Rampart."

"I can't say I'm surprised. The staff there wouldn't let me anywhere near you, wouldn't even confirm that you were still there, and your partner was in no shape to tell us anything."

"You saw Gage?" Chet demanded.

"Of course. This _is_ an assault case. The system requires certain things if it's going to work. Ideally, we'd have gotten a statement from Mr. Gage. Barring that, if we even hope to nail these guys, then evidence has to be gathered as quickly as possible."

"If you couldn't talk to him what kind of evidence could Johnny give you," Marco asked.

"I'll get to that. There are a few things I need to go over with Mr. DeSoto first. Captain Hammer, if you'd retake your seat?" Cap just stared at the detective. He made no move to comply. Finally McCluskey looked away. He pulled a pen and a small notebook from the inner pocket of his sports jacket and returned his attention to Roy. "Your coworkers have told me what they could about what happened at the laundry, which, frankly, wasn't much." He made a show of reading his notes. "Before we get to that, though, I understand you and your partner were victims of an assault shortly before the call to the laundry, yes?"

Marco and Mike turned shocked eyes to Roy. Chet had been able to fill Cap in briefly while Roy showered, but there'd been no opportunity to share the news with the others.

"What does this have to do with what happened at the laundry," Cap asked.

"Your man was the victim of two assaults within minutes of each other. Either he's having a really bad day, or maybe we need to take a closer look at him. What kind of a troublemaker is this Gage?"

Cap's grip on Roy's shoulder tightened slightly. Jaws clenched, as did fists, but no one said a word. They all glared at the detective.

Finally, Roy asked, "Don't you guys talk to each other? There were two officers at that scene this morning: Bogart and Phillips." McCluskey didn't react to the names; he waited for Roy to continue. "We spotted a child at risk. Turns out we stumbled into a family situation. The woman was a junkie, she was endangering her son. We got the child away from her; she decided to show us how she felt about that. She jumped on Johnny's back, kneed, kicked, scratched, bit. Would you like to inspect the infection her bite left on my arm?"

"That won't be necessary." There were satisfied smirks all around as McCluskey turned just a little green at Roy's suggestion. He decided to change tacks. "Your man was alone in the back room with those boys, correct?"

"You already know he was," Mike spoke before Roy could answer.

"Yes, right. Let's see," he flipped the pages of his notebook, "one of the boys approached you, grabbed Gage's arm and said he needed help. Gage went with him willingly. Does that about sum it up?" Roy nodded. "Does Gage like girls?"

The sudden change in the questions left the men stunned. "What do you mean, 'like girls,' of course he likes girls. Some of them even like him," Chet responded.

"You're sure," the detective continued. "There's no chance maybe he's a little … off?"

"Johnny?" Chet continued. "You're kidding, right?"

McCluskey shook his head. "No, no kidding. It's been suggested that he —"

"That he _what_?" Marco demanded.

"That maybe he prefers _being_ the girl to being _with_ a girl."

A quick clearing of Cap's throat kept his men's reactions in check, though the tension in the room continued to rise. "Who suggested it," Mike asked, "the men that almost killed him in that dryer?"

"Those boys said it was an accident, that it started out as just a practical joke."

"A practical joke!?" Chet was incredulous. "Do you have any idea what that practical joke did?"

He checked his notes. "Hyperthermia, first and second degree burns, over twenty bone fractures —"

"Twenty?" The crew turned to Roy.

"They didn't know," McCluskey asked before Roy could respond to Marco's question.

"When did I have the chance to tell them," Roy countered.

"Why didn't you tell them back at the laundry? You're a paramedic, aren't you? Shouldn't you have figured it out in the field?"

"I am a paramedic. I'm not a doctor, and if I was a doctor I couldn't take X-rays out in the field."

"Right, well … These boys said it was just a joke gone bad. They claim they've done it before and no one's ever gotten hurt."

"They've done it before," said Roy quietly, "but not with the heat on. Johnny would've been fine if the heat wasn't on."

"They say that was an accident. Said it was part self-defense."

"How was throwing my partner into an industrial dryer with the heat on and starting it self defense?"

Detective McCluskey went to the couch in the corner and picked up the manilla envelope he'd put there while awaiting Roy's return from Rampart. He returned to the table and stood before the men, but looked directly at Roy when he replied, "They claim your man Gage made unwelcome advances."

"What!?"

"They're trying to say Johnny made a play for them, Chet." Roy's voice remained soft, his lips turned up in a sick grin, the fury burned in his eyes.

"Oh, I get what they're saying; I just can't believe they're saying it. I can't believe they think anyone would believe that garbage! Not Gage, no way!"

"It is garbage," Marco agreed, "but you can bet some idiot will believe it." He looked directly at McCluskey.

"They said that not only did he make passes, but that when they turned him down he turned violent. Gave one a bloody nose. That's where the blood on Gage's jacket came from, not from Gage. He'd apparently already removed the jacket. That's when the advances started. According to the witnesses he removed his jacket and said he was 'hot' for them."

"Witnesses?" Chet yelled. "You mean suspects, don't you?"

McCluskey ignored Chet's question. "Just two more questions, gentlemen, and then I think we'll be done here." He turned to Roy. "Why didn't you go with him? When that boy came out asking for help and your partner went with him, why didn't you? That's what you guys do, isn't it? You work in pairs, so why didn't you go with your partner?"

"You son-of-a—"

Marco's response was stopped by Cap's free hand touching his shoulder. The other still lay on Roy's shoulder, offering strength, support, and guidance as Roy needed it. Roy met Marco's eye and gave a tight-lipped smile.

"Detective, what do you know about paramedics?" Cap's voice was quiet, his tone firm.

"Firemen with some advanced first aid training," McCluskey replied simply.

"The men of the rescue squads are the first ones in. If your home is burning they're running into the flames to get your family; to get you out. And not just fires. People get into all kinds of trouble in all kinds of places. These men are the first up the ropes, up mountains, up the sides of buildings, on rooftops and scaffolds and cranes hundreds of feet off the ground. They're first into collapsed buildings, cave-ins, chemical spills, even the ocean when necessary. Anyplace you can think of that someone can get trapped or hurt, my men have been there, and even a few places you haven't thought of.

"The 'advanced first aid' includes starting I.V.'s, administering life-saving medications, delivering babies, even restarting hearts. They work under a doctor's orders to stabilize patients that would otherwise die before ever reaching the doctor. They do this under conditions that the doctors guiding them still can't imagine, conditions you, with all your police experience, can't even imagine.

"Gage and DeSoto are two of the best men I've ever had the privilege to command. Gage was asked for help, he went to help. DeSoto had a victim in his care. The civilians we serve come first. You should understand that; we're supposed to be on the same side. These men put their lives on the line every time they come to work; they shouldn't have to fear the people they're helping."

Had circumstances been different Roy might have blushed at such a testimonial from his captain. A quick glance around at his friends showed only their agreement. The awkward moment was broken by the tones. All the firemen sat up a little straighter, forgetting for just a second that they were off duty. They listened as C-shift responded to the call.

As the engine's sirens faded into the distance Roy returned his attention to the detective. "What's your last question?"

"Excuse me?"

"You said you had two questions left," Roy explained. "My captain just answered the first one. That leaves one. So what's your last question?"

Detective McCluskey moved around the table, removing a stack of photographs from the envelope as he did. "Excuse me." With poorly concealed displeasure, Mike moved his chair over to allow the detective some space next to Roy. "I need you to look at these," he laid a picture of a sprained right ankle on the table in front of Roy, "and tell me," a picture of a broken left ankle, "which were caused by Caprice Anderson," Roy'd never said her name. His gaze flew to McCluskey's face. _He did know!_ A pair of bruised and battered shins appeared, "and which were caused by the dryer incident." Next came a pair of thighs with four distinct bruises, one just above each knee, one on each thigh just below the groin. Roy quickly turned the picture face down, appalled at this invasion of his friend's privacy. McCluskey lowered the next picture more slowly. Roy grabbed it before it reached the table and crumbled it into a ball. "That's ok, these are just copies." Cap stepped back as Roy shot to his feet. "I don't have to charge you with destroying evidence," McCluskey almost managed to sound magnanimous.

"Detective, I think we're through here." Cap could have been issuing an order to one of his own men, but his men knew there'd have been much more respect in the command.

"As soon as DeSoto goes through these pictures —"

"Now, detective." All the firemen were now on their feet, circling Roy. Mike gathered the pictures that were on the table and pushed them at McCluskey.

"May I show you out," Chet asked with a flourishing wave toward the door.

The policeman turned to Roy. "I know this is difficult, DeSoto, but if you want to get your partner any just —"

"It's _Mr._ DeSoto, McCluskey," Cap corrected. "He'll do whatever is necessary to get justice for Gage, but right now you're done."

McCluskey was shoving the photos back into the envelope when Roy stepped up to him. "Johnny and I told Bogart and Phillips that we'd be at Rampart division around seven this evening. I'll be there, we can finish this then." He turned and left the room.

**Scene Five**

"He's gone." Fewer than five minutes had passed. Cap entered his office to find Roy sitting at the desk, the crumpled photograph now smoothed out in front of him, face down.

"Does he really believe that humiliating Johnny like that is the way to get him justice?"

"I can't answer that." He pulled up a chair. "I can tell you that Gage has nothing to be ashamed of. And he won't, not if this crew has anything to say about it."

"Did you see it," Roy nodded at the photo in front of him.

"I saw it."

"Then how can you say —"

"John was the victim of a terrible crime, and sometimes the justice system stinks. As this case goes forward some things may prove embarrassing. We can't protect him from all the ugliness he's going to face. If nothing else, Detective McCluskey showed us that. But we can support John, and remind him that no matter how embarrassing it gets he has nothing to be ashamed of." They sat in companionable silence while Roy pondered Captain Hammer's words.

"Hey," Mike appeared at the door. "Are we interrupting?" He stepped into the office, followed closely by Marco and Chet.

"Sorry if we are," Marco added.

"We were just hoping you could fill us in on Johnny's condition," Chet finished.

"Over twenty broken bones?" Mike's question opened the floodgates and Roy was inundated with questions he could barely discern.

"Hold it," Cap rose. "Roy?"

"Yes, there are over twenty fractures. That doesn't mean they're all broken. Doesn't even mean it's twenty bones. Cracks in the bones are also referred to as fractures. And there's different kinds of fractures. He's got seven broken fingers; three of those are compound fractures. You saw them; those are the ones that broke the skin. Breaks in both arms, lower left and upper right. A number of fractures are to his ribs. Eight ribs are involved; half of them are broken, the others have cracks, a couple more than one crack per rib, and one of the broken ribs has an additional crack in it. Cracks in both tibia, that's the shins, his right patella — knee cap; there are a few breaks in the bones of his left ankle, and both big toes.

"His right shoulder was dislocated. His kidneys took a pounding, the doctors are keeping a close eye on that.

"He's got first degree burns on all the exposed skin and a good part of his back where his shirt pulled up; second degree wherever he came in contact with the metal. His pants did give some protection where they covered, they pulled up a bit on the shins, and there's a pretty significant second degree burn to his right hip. Seems he put his knife and scissors into his pockets; the material inside the pocket was pretty thin, the scissors got too hot."

"Why would he do that, why put the metal so close to his skin," Chet wondered aloud.

"Think about it, Chet," said Roy gently. "If he left them on his belt and they'd come loose and started tumbling around in there with him … at least this way it's just one, small area. From the scissors, anyway."

"Is there any good news?"

Roy offered a wan smile. "Yeah, Mike. There is, actually. We got the hyperthermia in time. Somehow there's no spinal injury. He was able to protect his eyes, face, chest, belly, his upper legs. There's no concussion —"

"What about all that blood on his head," asked Marco.

"Not Johnny's. Maybe it has something to do with the nosebleed the detective mentioned. That could produce a lot of blood."

"How would it get in Johnny's hair," Marco persisted.

"I don't know, Marco. That's the detective's job."

"You trust him," asked Chet, incredulous.

"Forget McCluskey for now," said Cap. "What's going on with Gage, when can we see him?"

Roy sighed. "Not for a while. He's pretty heavily sedated."

"When, then?"

"He's in isolation," Chet answered Mike's question. "From what I could gather, it may be a while."

They all turned to Roy expectantly. "They can't cast the fractures. They can't treat the burns if he's got casts. The ribs are one thing, but his arms and hands and legs … they're in splints so they can get at the burns. They can't risk him moving so they'll have to keep him sedated until the burns are sufficiently healed for the casts to go on."

The silence filled the room. As firemen they were all well aware of how long it could take burns to heal.

Again it was Mike who broke the silence. "Isn't it dangerous to keep someone sedated that long?"

"There's no other way, not with Johnny's combination of injuries."

The squad backed into the bay. The men waited for the C-shift paramedics to head into the day room before parting ways. Once again Roy was alone in the office with his captain.

Cap closed the office door. "How are you holding up, DeSoto?"

"I'm all right, Cap. I'll be better once Johnny's out of the woods." Cap nodded. He reached into one of the desk drawers and pulled out a lighter, which he handed to Roy. "What's this for?" Cap glanced toward the photograph still face down on the desk. Roy smiled and took the lighter. Cap grabbed the waste basket, dumped the few papers in it onto the floor and planted it in front Roy.

Roy picked up the photo. He held it over the small metal waste basket and lit the corner. He couldn't bear to think of how Johnny had sustained this particular injury. He watched with some relief as the image evaporated into the smoke, wishing the smoke could take the image from his mind as well. Finally the photograph of Johnny's buttocks with the large hand-shaped bruise on the left side was gone.

He and Cap made sure the fire was out, then quickly straightened the office before heading to the parking lot. Again Roy was struck by the apparent normalcy of the day.

"Get some rest, DeSoto."

"Will do, Cap." He got into his car to head home. Finally, the shift was over.


	5. Act IV

**ACT IV**

**Scene One**

The pictures punched Roy in the gut as hard as any fist could have. He thought he'd seen the last of them two weeks prior … at least until the trial, the police had said, and that would be a long time coming. There might not even be a trial; if the boys pled guilty, though no one really believed that was likely, or if a deal could be made. That meant the assailants would plead guilty to a lesser charge in exchange for a reduced sentence, often significantly so, Bogart had said sadly, especially for first time offenders, which these boys were. Some deal. Either Johnny's attackers got off easy or Johnny would have to relive the assault in court and in the newspapers. However the case went, Johnny would get the short end.

The office was small, not much bigger than the cubicles outside. Having left immediately following shift change, Roy had arrived early for his nine o'clock appointment. There were some people already working, but none near the office he needed. His knock was answered with, "Come on in." When Roy first entered, the man pacing behind the desk waved him in, pointed to the two chairs in front of the desk, then sat down on his own side and spun the chair toward the window, as if not looking at his visitor reestablished his privacy. Roy wouldn't have heard him anyway. His full attention was on the wall to his left. These weren't the snapshot-size prints the police had shown him. These were large, clear prints, posted here like wallpaper for all the world to see. Every bruise, every break, every burn, every degradation was on display. Three in the middle were especially disturbing. One footprint, one handprint, and one, though less clear, Roy was certain, pair of each.

"Can I help you?" The question had obviously already been asked more than once. Still, Roy could not tear himself away from the pictures. The man moved to the wall and reached up, pulling down an old map of Los Angeles like a shade to cover the John Gage humiliation gallery. Finally, Roy turned away from the wall. "How can I help you?"

"Mr. Belosi? I'm Roy DeSoto."

"Aw, geez," he seemed genuinely distressed. "I'm sorry, Mr. DeSoto. I planned to have that," he nodded at the now covered wall, "put away before you got here. Can we start again?" He offered Roy his hand. "ADA George Belosi. Pleased to meet you; I am sorry for the circumstances." Roy relaxed and accepted the offered hand. "Please, have a seat." Roy sat as the ADA made his way back around the desk. "I wasn't expecting you for another," he paused to check his watch, "forty minutes. Wow, you are early."

"I came straight from the station. No traffic, I made good time."

"Very good. Listen, I hope you don't think we just leave pictures like that around for everyone and their uncle to gawk at. I try to get that cover down whenever I have anyone in here not working on this case. I assumed you were staff. I guess it's true what they say about assuming, huh? Gage is your friend; I can't imagine how hard it must be for you, but whether I like it or not those pictures are evidence. Right now they're the best evidence I've got if I want to put those guys away."

Roy smiled. He liked this man. Belosi was Roy's height, with a trim, athletic build. His jacket and tie were on hooks behind the office door, the top buttons of his shirt were open, the sleeves pushed up above his elbows. Roy placed him at about forty years old, and, although his dark hair was thinning on top, there was a youthfulness about him and something else. _He's Johnny at that age, if Johnny had gone to law school._ The thought broadened his smile. At first he couldn't imagine John Gage sitting through the hours and hours of class time law school required. Then a picture came to mind, as clearly as if it were playing out in front of him. Johnny in court, jacket hanging on the back of his chair, tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, using his own unique Gage logic to elicit the desired testimony from a witness, making an impassioned plea to the jury as he paced before them. Yes, John Gage had a way about him, and Roy realized that despite the perpetual motion of his body, law school could very well have kept the equally energetic mind engaged. Roy could not shake the feeling that George Belosi and John Gage were cut from the same cloth: energetic, focused on the job, and earnest in their desire to help. For the first time since that terrible day he felt like, just maybe, Johnny would actually get justice from the justice system.

"I was surprised to hear from you so soon," said Roy as he took a seat. "I thought the other side dragged these things out. I guess I shouldn't believe everything I hear."

Belosi sat on the corner of his desk. "Actually, there's truth in that. It's often to their advantage. Life goes on; witnesses become unavailable, memories fade, cases need to be closed. Not this time, though." He held up a hand, forestalling any questions, and dove right in. "Mr. DeSoto, have you ever heard of Webber, Morgan and Towne?"

"The investment firm?"

"What do you know about them?"

"Started here in Los Angeles in the twenties, survived the Depression, and really took off after the war. Headquartered in their own building downtown, offices in New York, Chicago, and London."

Belosi nodded. "The county must pay firemen a lot more than they do lawyers," he teased.

"I have a family; I have to be smart about money. I read whatever I can about investing and they're in the paper all the time."

"What if I told you the men that assaulted your friend are John 'Jack' Webber and Erik Towne?" He waited a moment as the full impact of his words registered.

"Money. Power. Fancy lawyers." Belosi nodded. "What does this mean for Johnny?"

"That depends on him."

"On him? How —"

"There's no question of their guilt. Your whole crew and the laundry's manager and customers all saw Gage go into that back room with Towne. The manager will testify that there was no one else in there, and you and your crew heard Towne say that Webber was waiting when he lured Gage. It was only the three of them there when they were found and there was an officer on scene when that happened. With that and … well," he gestured toward the now covered pictures, "the injuries Gage sustained, I'll get a conviction."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I can get a conviction; I can't make any promises on sentencing."

"I don't understand."

"Webber and Towne are claiming it was a practical joke gone wrong when Gage —"

"I know what they're saying," said Roy with disgust. "Detective McCluskey couldn't wait to tell us."

Belosi shook his head. "McCluskey's ok. That's one of the things I need to discuss with you."

"McCluskey?"

Belosi nodded. "Why did you put off talking to him? If Gage really is just an innocent victim in all this then why wouldn't you —"

"_If_ he's innocent? Of course he's innocent!" He lowered his voice. "What is this? I thought you were on our side." Though the words were angry, Roy's tone revealed his disappointment.

"I am. So is McCluskey, believe it or not. Official reports note when he was at the hospital and at your station, and when you were. I have to account for the delay in your interview, make sure there's nothing that could possibly be used against us."

"I never knew he was at Rampart. I found that out later when McCluskey himself told me."

"And the station? Why didn't you go talk to him right away? Were you trying to hide something?"

Roy inhaled sharply, but as he looked at the man asking the question he realized there was no accusation in it. He blew out the breath and began slowly, his mind travelling back to that awful morning. "I just … I needed a minute. When we got back to the station, I was only taking a minute; then I saw the vomit. In the dryer, John … I stepped in it or, maybe when I cut away his uniform … There was vomit on my shoes, my pants. And blood. On my shirt. Mine and … Not a lot of blood for how bad he was …" Roy looked up then, and seemed to realize that he'd been talking, not just remembering. "I only wanted a minute, but the vomit and blood … I couldn't … Not with Johnny's blood …" He set his jaw and shook off the image, if not the memory. "I washed up. If McCluskey has a problem with that —"

"Don't worry about McCluskey. He's hard, but he's thorough and fair. I know it probably didn't seem that way, but believe me, what he asked you guys was necessary. It wasn't just about your answers, he also noted your reactions to the questions. If he read you guys right, and I'm sure he did, the claims against Gage aren't just nonsense, they're nonsense the defense won't be able to sell the jury as easily as they would like. That goes a long way toward weakening their case, especially with the added testimony of the nurses that have been interviewed. Don't worry," he responded to the horrified look Roy gave him, "they've only been told that we're gathering background information on Gage, which is true where they're concerned. He's strangely popular among them. Even the ones who said they wouldn't go out with him again were protective of him. There was a lot of concern for him; some giggling and eye rolling, too, but not one would speak against him. I suspect that might not be the case when they're talking amongst themselves," he added, more to himself than to Roy, who nodded his understanding. "That he's inspired such loyalty from all those women, especially those with whom he's had failed relationships, is a tremendous blow to the defense's case. The bottom line, though: we need Gage's testimony. We need him to tell which injuries were caused by the earlier incident, we need him to tell how he got in that dryer, and, most important, we need to know if Webber or Towne said or did _anything_ that might show that they knew the heat was on when they started the dryer."

"How could they not know? They were watching him in there. Wasn't that in McCluskey's report? The guys saw —"

"Chet Kelly and Mike Stoker. Yes, it's in the report. The doctors' statements are also in there: concurrence that if not for the heat being on, Gage likely would have been fine. The problem is that those two have done this before, with washers and dryers. The police have seen it, so has the hospital. No one was ever seriously injured though. That supports their claim that they had no reason to believe anyone would be this time. He wouldn't have been, either, except for the heat. The metal was too hot for Gage to hold on to. If he could have, the broken bones as well as the burns would have been prevented. I understand he had first degree burns on all the exposed skin and second degree where the skin came into contact with the metal, even through his shirt."

"Yeah."

"And there it is. The previous victims all got into the appliance willingly and came out with nothing more than a little dizziness."

"John wasn't willing; he was on duty. He's not some kid pledging the fraternity; he didn't climb in. Isn't that obvious?"

"Legally that doesn't matter; 'obvious' isn't admissible. If they can convince the jury that it was just a tragic turn of an otherwise innocent act, the best I can probably get them for is simple assault. That's a misdemeanor. They could get out of this with no jail time at all. I have to show, beyond a reasonable doubt, that they knew what they were doing would harm him and that they intended to cause that harm."

Roy sat silently as the ADA's words sank in. "This doesn't make any sense. They almost killed him. We still don't know if he … They almost killed him. That's attempted murder, isn't it? How could they not go to jail?"

"There's no question they did it. The question is of what they meant to do. They're trying to sell the idea that they believed what they're saying about him, not that he did anything, just that they believed he would. I have to show that they intended to hurt him. That's aggravated assault. Legally, they only need to show that they believed they had to defend themselves from him, not that they actually did."

"The law stinks."

"Yeah," Belosi's eyes dropped to the floor. "Sometimes it really does." He brought his gaze up and looked directly into Roy's eyes. "I promise you, I will do everything in my power to get these guys what they deserve."

"What if …" Roy swallowed. "What if John doesn't remember? That's a possibility."

"I know. That's one of the things I wanted to discuss with you this morning." He moved to the wall. "The defense efforts to rush this case into court."

"Why?"

"It's good strategy on their part. It's to their advantage that Gage never gets to court. They don't want to face him there. Not just that they don't want him to testify, they don't want a jury to see them side by side. I've managed to hold things off for now, but their lawyers are as good as you would expect and I still need to build this case. That's one reason I called you. It would be better directly from Gage, but, for now, you're the only one who can say which injuries were caused by the Anderson woman." He raised the map. "The doctors can testify that all these injuries occurred around the same time. With medical experts saying none came significantly before or after, separating the results of the two assaults is imperative."

Roy steeled himself and joined Belosi in front of the dreaded pictures. He pointed out four, then turned his face away from the wall. "She jumped on John's back, it didn't cause any injury. She did squeeze her legs around him a bit, but that was more to hold on, she didn't hurt him with that either. Mainly she held on by his hair. I can only imagine what a picture of his scalp would show," he added bitterly. There was a long moment of silence, then, finally, Roy returned his attention to the pictures. He tapped one. Johnny's palms. "I told you she was on his back. At one point he was up on all fours, she forced him back down. That's how he got the scrapes here." He hit another picture. Johnny's knees. "And here. She only caused the scrapes, what you can see of them. The other bruising …" He touched a third picture. Johnny's neck. "She did that with her fingernails. She gave us a matched set." His eyes flitted to his arm where his own scratches had been. His hand absently traveled to his bicep, which still bore the faint mark of Caprice Anderson's bite.

He reached toward the fourth picture, but pulled his hand back, unable to touch it, unwilling to look at it. Johnny's thighs. "When Gage got to his hands and knees, she forced him down by driving her heels into his legs." He finally did look at the picture, then sighed and turned to Belosi. "The smaller bruises just above his knees, they're the right size and in the right place to be from her feet. Those other two, though, I … I don't know how —"

George Belosi lowered the map with one hand while the other gently pushed Roy's shoulder, turning him away from the now covered pictures and back toward his seat. "We do. Proving that will come down to Gage's testimony too; only he can say for sure. The possibilities are medically limited though, so we know."

Roy nodded. "Yeah. I think … I guess I do, too." Belosi took the chair next to Roy's and waited for the other man to find his voice. "Even if the doctors couldn't place the timing of … John didn't have any bruises before the shift, and we didn't get into anything during the shift that would … we've never gotten into anything that would cause those bruises. Not like that." Another long pause. Years of experience told Belosi the question Roy was working his way up to asking. "I know what they're claiming Johnny did to them, but … they did it, didn't they? Not just passes, they … they touched … they hurt him … that way, didn't they."

"Yes."

"And when he recovers, if he remembers, you want Johnny to testify to that?"

"Yes."

"In open court?"

"Yes."

"The papers are already having a field day with this story."

"Yes."

"And there's nothing you can do?"

"About the media? I'm afraid not. I wish we could, that's the jury pool reading those stories, but we can't stop them and we can't change the story without …"

Roy waited for Belosi to complete the thought. "Without what?"

"The pictures. We could probably turn the story around with the right pictures."

"Not … " He held his breath

"No. I'll do whatever I can to keep those under wraps for as long as I can. Truth is: releasing them would help. Not all of them, not the ones you're most concerned about. Some would garner sympathy, but those are too graphic, they could backfire. The defense doesn't want those pictures out either, not any of them, though they have their own reasons. Problem is, the defense has their own copies —"

"Those guys have those pictures?" _This just keeps getting better_.

"Their lawyers do. They're evidence, they're entitled to — It doesn't matter. I've dealt with this firm before. They're not above breaking the rules, and they get away with it, in court almost as much as out. They'll try this case in the papers; half-truths and innuendo will be accepted as evidence. They'll bias the jury pool before we ever get to court. If we release the pictures that would help our case, they have no reason not to release the rest of them. It would be a gamble, but with the right spin they could use those pictures to lend credence to their allegations of Gage's proclivities."

"But it's not true!"

"I know. But I can only control what's said in court, and even then only to an extent. It's up to the jury who they choose to believe. Anybody can say anything to a reporter, and the papers will publish what will sell. Some of the more conscientious may try to verify the facts, but how can they here? The police and this office have already said as much about this case publicly as we will, the doctors won't say anything, Gage can't. Who's left? The laundry manager, and you and your crew. I've spoken with her; believe me when I tell you the manager is on our side. I know the department ordered no one discuss the case, but they didn't really need to, did they?" Roy shook his head and offered a weak smile. "I thought as much. And the fire department itself, will they address this beyond the statement they've already given? Would you really want them to?"

Roy shook his head. _The Los Angeles County Fire Department is deeply saddened by the accusations made against one of our firefighter/paramedics. Said firefighter/paramedic was severely injured in the line of duty while rescuing his accusers and is unable to respond to the allegations at this time. A departmental inquiry has revealed an exemplary record and no evidence to support these specious claims. Until such time as he is proven guilty in a court of law this department stands by him and looks forward to both his full recovery and complete exoneration. _"It was a pretty bold statement."

Belosi smiled. "Gage will never be charged; your department knows he's been cleared of any wrongdoing as far as the police and this office are concerned. I wish we could have prevented the internal, too, but we both know they had to do something on the record once the story broke. What your Captain said, _that_ was a bold statement."

"You heard about that?"

"Of course. And Captain Hammer's not the only one that feels that way. You and your crewmates have closed ranks around him, which is right. So did the crew at station 10 and his former partner there. Freeman, I think?" Roy nodded his confirmation. "To say nothing of Chief Conrad and Chief Houts. The word 'impulsive' has come up, but I don't anticipate it doing any damage. Everyone we've spoken to insists Gage would rush in to a situation to help someone but never do anything that would put a victim at risk, ever. He's earned a lot of respect for someone who's only been at the job four years." He smiled. "And that's just the fire department. On the medical side there's Doctors Brackett and Early, and Miss McCall. The only issue there is that they're also on this case as his care providers. Beyond them there's Dr. Parsons, Dr. Morton, Wilma Jacobs —"

"Dr. Morton?"

"He's a little rough around the edges. I'm not sure he even likes John Gage, but he does respect him professionally, and since the issue is his alleged behavior on the job, that's what matters."

"Good, so John's got a solid reputation and a bunch of character witnesses. How much can that help him against the accusations? The publicity?"

"Fortunately, nothing's actually been said publicly beyond the initial reports that a 'Los Angeles County firefighter/paramedic was overzealous in his rescue efforts' and that the two 'boys he was rescuing responded in kind, accidentally injuring the rescue man in self-defense.' _Boys_, my Aunt Fannie!" He recited the lead of the first story on the incident from memory, the words _boys_ and _accidentally_ dripping with sarcasm. "That's already more than should have gotten out, especially the way they're telling it. "

"How much does the department know?"

"They don't know precisely how we believe your partner was injured, if that's what you're asking. He's been hurt enough. Maybe I'm an idealist but I wasn't going to stand by and let him be victimized any more, especially when he's in no position to defend himself. I really do believe in justice and I plan to get it in this case. If this were almost anybody other than Webber and Towne none of it would have seen the light of day."

"You said releasing some of the pictures could help. How?"

Belosi reached for the files across his desk and pulled out three 8x10 photographs. Three happy young men in uniform. Jack Webber smiled at the camera, his shoulder pads resting between his left hand and hip, his right hand holding a football as if about to throw it.

Erik Towne grinned, his right foot resting on the shoulder pads on the ground in front of him, his left hand holding the football to his chest.

Johnny beamed. Even in the still photograph the eyes seemed to move with laughter. He was in his dress uniform, his hat hanging loosely from his right hand. Roy allowed himself another small smile. He remembered this picture. There'd been a cake and a small, informal ceremony when Johnny's paramedic class had graduated. Soon after the passage of the Wedsworth-Townsend Act the department had held a formal graduation ceremony at which the department, as well as the press, had taken numerous photographs of the newly certified paramedics, including Roy DeSoto and John Gage. A variety of brochures and publicity materials for the new program soon appeared. John's formal graduation picture, a copy of which hung on a wall at headquarters alongside Roy's and the others', a bust shot with the hat sitting properly on his head, had been used in the brochures that went to high schools, junior colleges and career events aimed at young men of that age.

"I can't believe this was only taken about a year and a half ago. He looked like such a kid." Roy shook his head as he realized, "Still does."

"Exactly." Roy looked up, the question addressed before he could ask it. "Look at them again, all three." Belosi waited a moment while Roy examined all three photographs more closely. "What if I told you that Webber was left back twice, once in grade school, again in high school?"

Roy shrugged. "So what?"

"In spite of his academic failings, and his family's money, he's in school on a full ride football scholarship. He's that good.

"Those two grew up together. Their families go way back, Towne's only a year younger. That put him one year ahead academically. He puttered around his freshman year, kept switching up his major; when his friend caught up they landed in the same classes as well as the fraternity. Together to terrorize the campus just like they had in high school."

"Wait a minute," Roy snapped angrily. "Are you telling me they have a history of terrorizing people — that is the word you used, isn't it? They have a record of doing that and you still can't get them?"

"Juvenile record. Even without the clout of their families I couldn't use that. Some of it shouldn't be, juvenile, I mean, not considering how old Webber was in high school, but —"

"Family influence," Roy acknowledged bitterly.

"Yeah. It stinks, I know. There've been some incidents at the university, hazing mostly. Not unlike the incident that brought you guys to that laundry in the first place. If some of those guys would just come forward that would be all I'd need. I could show a pattern of behavior, maybe even add charges. Between their families' clout and the physical intimidation, no one will speak on the record. They're all too afraid."

"Can't you make them testify?"

"Sure. I can subpoena them, put them on the stand. I can't make them admit the truth. Everyone we've spoken to is a lot more afraid of those two than they are of a perjury charge."

"So how could releasing these pictures help?"

Belosi lined the pictures up next to each other. "Those shots were taken at the end of their freshman year."

"So that would make them about the same age as Johnny was in his picture."

"Which was taken just about a year ago. Webber and Towne are seniors."

Roy sat up a little straighter as the implications became clear. "The papers keep talking about the fireman and the college boys. McCluskey did it, too. He talked about our 'man' and those 'boys' … Damn it!" He looked at the pictures again. Even in the dress uniform, Roy was suddenly painfully aware of just how thin Johnny was. He knew from working with Gage that thin could be deceptively strong but, as he looked at the other two, at how robust they looked in their football uniforms, even without the pads, Johnny seemed positively scrawny. "They're older than he is. They're bigger that he is. And they outnumber him."

"Exactly. That's one more reason they don't want to face Gage in court. They don't want the jury to see that. Unfortunately, keeping these pictures and that information under wraps is the only way we've been able to keep the more sordid details quiet. It's also the only way we've been able to keep Gage's name out of the papers. It's a trade-off. Webber and Towne get their privacy, John Gage gets his. It's —"

He was interrupted by the ringing of the phone. Belosi listened for a minute, then hung up with a smile. "Good news?" asked Roy.

"Yeah. That was Jan Pierce; she's the ADA on the Caprice Anderson case. They just came to an agreement regarding her assault on you and your partner."

"What kind of agreement?"

"She pled guilty to two counts of simple assault and one count of custodial interference. She's in a hospital that specializes in treating addicts. When she's discharged she'll be on probation for three years, during which time she'll be required to participate in an ongoing outpatient program. If, and only if, she stays clean and out of trouble during that time she'll be free and clear, if not she serves the full three years."

Roy nodded thoughtfully. "I guess that's fair. I don't believe she was trying to hurt us, at least I don't think she would have if she'd been straight. She probably hurt herself and her family more than Johnny or me."

"It gets better. It seems whatever she was on caused some kind of disconnect but didn't adversely affect her memory. Jan said Mrs. Anderson described it as watching somebody else using her body. The point is, she remembers and she's prepared to testify in this case." Roy didn't respond. "What's wrong?"

"Well, I'm sure you know what you're doing, but how does the testimony of a junkie who tried to hurt John herself help him?"

"I'll make it help. Preempt the defense, get all the dirt on the record myself so they can't use it against her. 'This poor woman lost herself to drugs. On the day in question she did not know she was a danger to her own son; nor did recognize that the rescue man sought only to protect the child. Once sober, she saw the truth and accepted responsibility for her actions. She has pled guilty to the charges against her. Although in a hospital, she will be locked up, away from her family, from her child. After having served her time, release will be conditional; she risks incarceration should she fail to meet the stringent conditions. She agreed to these terms of her own free will. She knows that hurting this man was wrong. She is here today in support of the very man she attacked, even as he risked his own well-being to help her son.' Something like that."

"Wow." Again, Roy found himself smiling. "You almost make her sound like a hero." When he agreed to this meeting he'd never have thought that could happen.

Belosi chuckled. "Almost. A little hero, a little victim, a little martyr. It adds up to a lot of sympathy, which translates to likability. A trial isn't about the facts, or even the law; not as much as it should be, anyway. A trial is a popularity contest. We need the jury to like our side better. Of course, the other side wants that for themselves."

"I guess they would." Roy released a small sigh of relief. "So what now?"

"I keep building my case. I'll fill in what I need where I can, like with you today. I'll personally interview everyone involved: the medical team, the officers, everyone who was there that day, starting with the rest of your crew. Don't worry, it can't help the case for anyone else to see them so I will make sure to keep those pictures under wraps when they're here. When anyone's here. For your friend's sake I wish we could end this without going to trial, and I'll keep trying to make that happen, but I can't agree to anything that doesn't include at least some jail time."

"They should to go to jail." Roy paused. "We were only there because another prank went wrong. Except it's not just pranks anymore." He paused again to gather his thoughts. "How can they do this? How can they claim it was an accident _and_ self-defense? How can they get away with hurting people, especially someone who was only trying to help them? Did anybody ever find out why? Why they really did it. Why they picked Johnny."

Roy grimaced at the answer. He and Belosi spoke a little while longer, then finally said their good-byes. Before departing the office, Roy turned to the DA one last time. "They deserve to go to jail. I just wish there was a way to get them there without having to put Johnny through a trial."

"Believe me, Mr. DeSoto, so do I."

**Scene Two**

"Hey, Roy," Dixie smiled as Roy neared the base station. "What brings you here today?"

"I had some business downtown after shift. I thought I'd stop in on my way home and check up on Johnny. How's he doing?"

"He's doing real good, Roy," said Dr. Brackett from behind him.

Roy turned to face him. "Really, Doc?"

Before Brackett could reply the radio came to life. Roy's surprise that the doctor did not move to respond lasted but a second. Mike Morton's voice answered the call. Roy turned back in time to see Dixie wave Sally Lewis over. A minute later he followed Dixie and Dr. Brackett into the latter's office.

"You weren't so sure yesterday" he dove in before Brackett could take his seat. "What's changed?"

Like Belosi had earlier, Brackett sat to face Roy on the corner of his desk. "That's just it, nothing significant. Minor improvements since yesterday, almost negligible. No complications, no setbacks. Slowly but surely, he's moving in the right direction."

"Tell me the truth, Doc," Roy was almost afraid to hope, "how long do you think until Johnny'll be strong enough to come back to work?"

"You're jumping the gun here, Roy," Brackett corrected gently. "He's doing great for this stage of his recovery, but any discussion of his return to duty at this time is premature."

"Yeah," Roy sighed. He'd been doing that a lot these past two weeks. "I guess I knew that. It's just … you said he's doing good."

"And he is. The bloody urine and abdominal rigidity present when you brought him in resolved without surgical intervention. There's been no sign of any infection. His burns are healing; we've even had plastics check on him. There's a good chance he can come out of this without any significant scars."

_On the outside, maybe._

"I hope to release him to ortho before the week is out."

"He's ready for that?"

Dixie laid her hand on his. "Roy, this is good news."

"I … I know, I just …" he paused. The past two weeks had dragged by as he had waited hopefully for word on Johnny's progress, medically and legally. Now that it was happening he worried that perhaps it was too fast. Johnny needed more time to get well. He had to build his strength. He was going to need it.

As if reading his mind, Dixie said, "He's strong, and he is getting better. We'll get him back in the squad with you, it's just going to take some time."

Roy did not notice the look Brackett shot her. A look that said _You can't promise him that. _

Dixie just smiled and squeezed Roy's hand reassuringly. She threw a quick glance back to Brackett. _It will happen. We'll make it happen. You'll see._

"By next week I expect all the breaks should be properly cast."

"'Should be'," Roy repeated. "Not 'will be'?"

"Feet, legs, and ribs," the doctor explained, "I'm not too worried about, as far as it goes. His arms and his hands, however, are cause for some concern." Roy eyed him expectantly. "Most of the burns were first degree and those have healed. Fortunately, he was spared any third degree. His arms and hands, though; there was a lot of direct contact with the hot metal without even the thin layer of protection of his shirt. Add to that the compound breaks of multiple fingers. If he keeps progressing the way he has been then I do think we can have all the casts in place in about a week; then we can wake him up and get him out of here."

"Out of here? He can't go home like that."

"No, he can't. He won't be going home, Roy."

"His family—"

Brackett was shaking his head. "They want to, but they understand that Johnny needs more than they can provide."

"Where, then?"

"As soon as he's fully stable, alert, and aware, John will be transferred to the Wexler Pavilion."

Roy's eyes widened, first in shock, then anger. Only the squeeze from Dixie's hand, which still lay on his, kept him from jumping to his feet. "The Wexler Pavilion!? How could you, that's no place for Johnny!"

"It's the best in town," Brackett fired back as he crossed his arms.

"Kel," Dixie snapped. "Roy," she said gently, returning her attention to him. "Roy," she repeated a bit more firmly when he continued glaring at Brackett. Finally, he turned to looked at her. "It's the right move, and you know it."

His shoulders slumped as he released his anger. "It's a nursing home, Dix. I know it's a good one … ok, the best, but it's still a nursing home. Johnny doesn't belong in a nursing home."

By this time Brackett had brought over a chair so that he was eye-to-eye with Roy without putting the desk between them. He'd allowed his personal feelings to interfere in this conversation when he snapped at his patient's friend, now he used those feelings to talk to his own friend. "It's more than just a nursing home, it's also a complete rehab facility. His prognosis is good, but he's got a long way to go. He's going to need a great deal of therapy once the casts come off … until then, even after, for a time, he'll need around the clock care. Feet, legs, ribs, arms, hands. Even if he could sit in a wheelchair comfortably he couldn't move it. It's not just getting around. Think about it, Roy. He won't be able to feed or wash himself; he won't even be able to sit up by himself."

Roy felt another sigh coming and clenched his jaw against it. "There's no other way?" He knew the answer even as he asked the question.

"The hospital can't provide the kind of care he'll require. Neither can his family, no matter how much they may want to. And they do want to." He paused, watching Roy closely. "Do you think Johnny would want them to?"

_He'll need around the clock care … he won't be able to feed or wash himself_. "No, but …" _Johnny's going to hate this._ "No."

"They came to the same conclusion, though it took much longer for them to accept it." Dr. Brackett paused thoughtfully. "Especially when they found out there are no facilities near them that could provide everything he'll need."

"Facilities near—" _Santa Barbara._ "They're taking him out of L.A.?"

"No," Dixie assured him. "They did look into it. They should, they're his family. They want Johnny close to them but Wexler has so much more to offer, not the least of which is that Johnny's made his life here, in L.A. They said that if he could make this decision himself, they believe he'd choose to be here, near his friends, his home."

_But he can't decide for himself. He can't do anything for himself. I'm so sorry Johnny. _He looked from Dixie to Brackett. "So you've already discussed it with them."

"That, and their permission to discuss his case with you."

"Permission," Roy grumbled. He hadn't thought of that. They'd never needed permission to tell him about a patient he'd treated before. _And this isn't just a patient, we're partners. _They'd been partners for two years, longer than they'd been paramedics. They'd trained together, been certified together, begun that phase of their careers together. They had no secrets. He wasn't sure Johnny could keep a secret, and as for himself, well, he wasn't quite as open a book as his young partner but he certainly had nothing to hide. _No, no secrets. Especially about this. I know what happened, I was there! _Except he wasn't, not really. He'd been in the next room; one of five men for a simple extrication while Johnny was left alone with those monsters. _I should been there. I know what happened. I saw the bruises, and I saw those pictures. Damn it, Johnny! Maybe one secret. I never would have believed I could wish this for anyone but I hope you don't remember. I hope you never know. With you or from you, that is one secret I will take to my grave. I promise. _At least they had the permission. He felt another sigh begin, which came out a bitter laugh.

"Johnny wouldn't mind," the doctor continued, "we both know that. So does his family. And you treated him in the field, you know his condition as well as any of us, but, with the legal issues and the publicity surrounding the case, everything has to be by the book." They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few long moments. Finally, Brackett rose and reseated himself behind his desk. "Roy, Johnny's a fighter. He's been fighting this from the beginning. The bruises tell us there was a lot more going on than the dryer. And as for that, well … I think he knew. I think he knew the heat was going to be on and that he protected himself."

Recalling his conversation with Belosi, Roy leaned forward in his chair. "Why? What makes you think so?"

"You said that Johnny had curled up in there."

Roy nodded. "That's what Chet said. And when we got it open … it wasn't just the cramped space. He'd tucked his chin and wrapped his arms around his head."

"He suffered no major organ damage. Some issues due to the heat, of course, but nothing from the tumble outside of the bruising to his kidneys. Unfortunately, he couldn't have done much to protect his back. Same with the ribs. The softest part of the body, though, was protected. And the femurs. And his head; no concussion, no damage to his neck or face, minimal heat damage to his nose and throat. Not to mention his eyes.

"I think he curled up before the dryer started turning. Otherwise I'd have expected less damage to his arms and more to the torso, thighs, hips, and skull; especially the skull. I think he buried his face in his arms to protect his eyes, nose and throat from the heat. And his palms were clean. There were the scrapes from the earlier incident, but no burns. If he'd tried to hold on until the heat got too much, we'd have found something on the palms of his hands; burns, blisters, something. But there was nothing."

"You've got to tell the D.A.," Roy exclaimed excitedly. This was just the break Johnny needed. It wasn't proof the heat had been on, just proof that Johnny had expected it to be. _If Brackett can testify then maybe Johnny won't have to!_ Hadn't Belosi said that the defense didn't need to prove Johnny would have done anything, only that his assailants had believed he would? Why couldn't that same logic apply here? There was no evidence of his assailants' alleged belief, but Johnny's had borne out.

"We actually got a call from that office just before you arrived," said Dixie. "I have an appointment with a Mr. Belosi tomorrow morning and Kel has one this afternoon."

"Whatever the legal ramifications," Dr. Brackett brought the conversation back, "the point here is just how strong and determined that partner of yours is."

"What do you mean?"

"To hold that position? It's counterintuitive, but he held it. I can only imagine the kind of pain he was in. Add to that dizziness and disorientation, and still he held on. I know it was bad, but Roy, it could easily have been so much worse. Johnny's a fighter. If he brings that determination to his rehab I believe he'll be just fine."

The men locked eyes across the desk. Finally, Roy smiled. "Thanks, Doc."

"How about I buy you a cup of coffee," Dixie offered as she rose.

"I'd like that." He reached across the desk to shake Dr. Brackett's hand. "Thanks again."

"We all want what's best for Johnny. We'll see him through this."

Roy nodded, then crossed to the door. While he held it open, Dixie paused to look back at Brackett. "See you later, Kel." She smiled at him.

He returned the smile. _You were right. Of course._

**Scene Three**

"How's Missy Tyro," Roy asked as he and Dixie entered the lounge.

"I thought you'd been checking in on her regularly," she motioned for him to take a seat while she fixed the coffee.

"I have. Her mother was with her the last few times I looked in so I left. I don't want to disturb that; it took too long in the first place."

Dixie smiled as she placed the coffee on the table and sat down. "Yes, but her mother's been here all day, every day since she did show up."

"And her father?"

She shook her head in disgust. "He was here once. Made a scene in her room trying to convince his wife to leave. Sharon was there at the time, she called me. When I got there the Pastor was repeating the same cr— stuff he said that night. I did manage to move them from the room into the hallway. I really thought he was going to get his way. He told Mrs. Tyro that she'd best get her goodbyes in, that when Missy was discharged she wouldn't be coming home. Then he just left."

"So what happens now, foster care?"

"Oh, no." Dixie took a long sip of her coffee. "Missy's a minor. Her parents are legally responsible. Sue Mullens, one of the social workers here at Rampart, made it very clear that charges would be brought if he shirked that responsibility. I don't know all the ins and outs but I do know Sue. Missy will go home. I just hope her mother can protect her there."

"You think her father would hurt her?"

"Not physically."

Roy's mind began to wander. Here he was, discussing Missy's case, yet Dr. Brackett wouldn't talk to him about his own partner. Based on Angela Tyro's reaction when Missy had introduced them, he knew her permission would have been granted.

"She has been doing better since her mother's been coming," Dixie was saying. She checked her watch. "Mrs. Tyro usually heads down to the cafeteria about now, just ahead of the lunch rush, if you'd like to see Missy yourself." When Roy didn't respond, she continued, "She is more responsive since her mother showed up, but only with women. You're still the only man she'll talk to."

"Tomorrow," he replied, "on shift."

Dixie's confusion clearly showed. "But didn't you just say you don't want to interrupt the visits with her mother? I don't mean to push you Roy, but if you do want to visit now would be a good time."

"On shift," he repeated. "The first time I went up to see her there was a woman coming out of the room. Turned out to be a counselor from the rape crisis center. We spoke, she recommended I only visit while in uniform. Said it would be better for us both."

"Why?"

"Missy already saw me as something of a hero." He blushed a bit, in spite of himself. "The counselor said it would be better if she associated the hero with the job. She said the professional distance would keep her from getting too dependant on me, and would …" He swallowed hard. "It would hurt her less when I wasn't around anymore."

"She has a point," Dixie said gently. "You can't watch over her forever. And what about you?"

"What about me," Roy asked.

"You said the counselor told you it would be better for you both. How is it better for you?"

"Rule number one. She figured that professional distance would keep me from getting too close, too."

"Makes sense."

"I wish it was always that easy. Just take it all off with the uniform. But what do you do when you're already emotionally involved?"

"We're not talking about Missy anymore, are we?" He shook his head. She smiled softly. "Just hold on that much tighter."

Roy nodded and smiled back. "With both hands."

**Scene Four**

Twenty-four hours later, following roll call and the usual morning equipment checks, before dispersing to tend to their assigned chores, five men gathered at the kitchen table. While Mike Stoker poured the coffee, the sixth man, Johnny's current fill-in, excused himself.

"It's ok," said Roy. "You can stay, Wheeler."

"I don't know," Tom replied from the doorway to the bay. "Somehow this seems personal … private, y'know?"

"Private!" barked Chet. "It's in the papers. Can't get much less private than that." He crossed to the television set, on top of which sat that morning's paper. He snatched it up and thrust it at Wheeler. "Go ahead, read it," he spat angrily.

"Chet." Stoker's voice was soft but firm. "It's not Wheeler's fault."

"Maybe not," Chet grudgingly agreed as he returned to the table.

"It's not his fault, but maybe he can help!"

"What are you talking about, Lopez?" Tom joined the rest of the crew at the table. "How could I help?"

"Carl Evans," explained Marco.

"What about him?"

"He's crazy about you. So use him to set the record straight."

"Hey, yeah," added Chet excitedly. "You can tell him what a great paramedic Gage is, how he would never hurt anyone, especially on the job."

"That's a great idea," Mike added enthusiastically.

"We can't," said Roy.

"Why the hell not?" Chet demanded.

"Haven't you guys noticed that none of the coverage of this story so far has mentioned that stuff McCluskey said they accused Johnny of or used Johnny's name?"

"Yeah, so? They're still saying things like 'rogue fireman' and how he jeopardized those boys!"

"Pipe down, Kelly." Cap turned to Roy. "What's going on, DeSoto?"

"The DA is trying to protect his case, and Johnny. If we reveal Gage's name we could be opening a whole can of worms." They all listened intently as Roy filled them in on that part of his conversation with Assistant District Attorney Belosi.

"Maybe I can talk to Carl," Tom ventured. "Maybe we all should."

"Don't you understand what I just told you? If this thing goes to trial, which it looks like it will, a lot of ugly things are going to be said about Johnny before it's over. The least we can do put that off as long as possible, and give the D.A. the time to at least try to find another way."

Tom shook his head. "I understand that, DeSoto. I do. We don't have to reveal Gage's identity. We don't even have to restrict the interviews to 51's. In fact, we probably shouldn't."

"What are you thinking, Wheeler?" asked Cap.

"If he only talks to this station it would be pretty easy for Carl to figure out who the firefighter in question is. What if he talks to a couple of you, to a few guys from some other shifts and other stations, all guys that know Gage well enough to talk him up, whose stories can be confirmed after his name is released, if it comes to that, but scattered enough that it can't be put together on its own. For now, we're just a bunch of firemen talking about another fireman. No one reveals Gage's name or any detail that would let anyone figure out who he is before we want them to."

"Why would Evans write that?" asked Mike. "It would be great if he would, but, like you said, we're just firemen talking up another fireman. Of course we'd stick up for one of our own. Where's the story in that? And what if it backfires?"

"What is your problem, Stoker?" Chet demanded. "Don't you want to help Gage?!"

"Enough!" Cap ordered.

"I'm sorry."

"It's ok, Chet," Mike offered a small but sincere smile.

Chet pulled the newspaper to himself from where Tom had left it on the table.  
>" '<strong>D.A. DELAYS JUSTICE! FELONIOUS FIREFIGHTER'S FRIENDS FAIL BATTERED BOYS<strong>' "

Roy and Mike both reached to grab the paper, but Chet turned in his seat, keeping it beyond their reach, and continued reading.

" 'The statement provided by the Los Angeles County Fire Department in support of their rogue paramedic came as no surprise as the department protected one of its own. In the spirit of cooperation among city agencies it now appears that the District Attorney's office is no longer in the justice business, but instead is also in the business of protecting city employees.' That's just the beginning."

"Stop, Chet, please," Roy almost begged.

"But —"

"I said enough, Kelly," barked Cap.

"I'm not looking for trouble," Chet offered. "I want to help Gage a much as the rest of you, but how do we actually do that?" One by one his gaze met each of the others. "Tell me, I'll do it. There's got to be something, we can't just wait. That's all we're doing. We're waiting for the D.A. to make his case. We're waiting for the papers to tell the whole story. Then we wait to see if ruins his career. And in the meantime we wait for Johnny to wake up. He is going to wake up, right? And, if he does, will he really get totally well? Will he even have a career for the papers to ruin?"

"Damn it, Chet."

"I'm tired of waiting, Roy. Aren't you? Let's do something."

"Yeah, Chet," Roy's reply was barely above a whisper. "I'm tired." He stared at the floor for a moment, then back up at his crew mate. "What do you suggest we do?"

Chet deflated. "I wish I knew. I'm reading that article … We can't talk to a reporter, not now. Not if the papers are saying the D.A. is just sticking up for firefighters, there's no way anything we say will look good. Mike's right."

"Maybe Carl can take another angle, without talking to anybody," Tom offered.

"How," asked Marco.

"He's already written a bunch of articles on me." Chet rolled his eyes, but remained silent. "And there's the series Reginald Siskine had his people do."

"What series," asked Cap. "Who's Reginald Siskine?"

"He owns and publishes a big ladies' magazine. We had a sea rescue a few months back and— Well, 110's territory but Roy and John actually brought the victim in." He glanced to Roy, who merely nodded. "I was there when the harbor patrol brought the boat in with Siskine's daughter aboard. She'd been seasick so I took care of her. Her father was impressed; he had his people do a series."

"For a glass of water and an aspirin," Chet muttered, remembering Wheeler's call to the station to flaunt the series to Johnny.

Tom either did not hear him or chose to ignore him. "That was the same day the little Diaz girl fell down the hole. It was Gage that actually pulled her out; I just ended up on camera 'cause I handed her off to her mother."

"Good of you to admit it." Chet smiled at Marco's comment.

"What if Carl reran some of those stories without using my name? Focus on the rescues and that stuff about Gage, no names."

"What good do you think that would do," asked Cap.

"These are confirmed stories from verified sources, they've already been in the paper. Can't accuse anybody of bias. Just show the good we paramedics do, and maybe point out along the way that the current accusations, unlike the other stories, haven't been proved."

They all turned to Roy. "Not yet," he finally said. "Let me ask the D.A. He says leave it alone, we do. Whatever he says, we abide by it." He looked around at them until they had all mumbled their assent.

"It's not bad, Wheeler," said Chet with grudging admiration. "If this works maybe you can get a promotion. Paramedics' PIO."

"Thanks, Kelly." Wheeler pulled the paper to him and stared at the headline for a moment. "That might not be as much of a joke as you think. They're still still singling him out, 'Felonious Firefighter,' 'Rogue Paramedic,' but if this goes on any longer it can only hurt the program."

"One step at a time," Marco stopped Chet's retort, then turned his attention to Roy. "Do they have any idea why those guys wanted Gage back there in the first place?"

"A joke." Roy looked around, his own feelings reflected in the expressions of disgust they all wore. "They're standing by that. They pull the washer-dryer gag in the fraternity all the time, they thought it would be funny to try it on someone outside the fraternity. Just a practical joke."

"A joke?" Chet gave voice to the anger they all felt. "That's not a joke," he yelled. "A water bomb is a joke. Flour in a guy's bed is a joke or syrup in his boots. A good joke leaves the target flapping and squawking like a wet pigeon, not burnt and beat up and half dead!" Roy was smiling at him. "What!?"

"You _are_ the phantom prankster. Johnny knows, y'know."

Chet grinned. "He may have figured it, but he'll never know for sure. That's the thing about phantoms: they're invisible. Gage'll never catch me." Roy's smile faltered. "He'll be back."

"Kelly's right," Cap assured them all. "Gage will return and those kids will get what they deserve." Roy laughed bitterly. "Is there something you haven't told us? About the legal case? Did Dr. Brackett say something?"

"You'll find out soon enough." Roy raised his hand against the onslaught of questions. "They're not kids. These guys got a late start on their college educations, one by one year, one by two, and they're seniors now."

"So the only kid in this mess is Gage," Cap said, more to himself than to the men.

"I never thought of them as kids."

"No, you didn't, did you Mike, " Roy realized. "You never called them 'kids' or 'boys', not once."

"They're not. They chose to hurt someone. One of us," Stoker replied. "They made a plan. They got him away from the rest of us, made up a lie to do it, then they ganged up on him and almost killed him. I don't care how old they are, they should be tried and punished as men."

The silence that fell was broken by Captain Hammer. "Does the D.A. know why Gage?"

"Yeah." Roy laughed. It was a harsh, grating sound. "Two reasons. One, he's the smallest of us."

"That makes no sense," exclaimed Marco.

Almost simultaneously, Chet cried out, "That's ridiculous. You and Stoker are the same height as him, but Gage is taller than the rest of us."

"It's not his height." Roy cleared his throat, then proceeded to share what the District Attorney had told him. "Seems they first spotted him when he was behind the washer. Johnny's tall, but he's not … big."

There was some mumbling among the men, then Cap pointed out, "You said two reasons."

Roy nodded, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "They said he looks like a freshman. They picked Johnny because he was obviously the youngest of us." He shook his head. "They targeted him because he's young. They almost stopped him from getting any older, and they're destroying him by making it seem like he is." He looked around at his crew mates, Johnny's crew mates. "Mike's right. They need to be tried and they need to be punished." They were all staring at him. "They need to be punished."


	6. Act V

**ACT V**

**Scene**** One**

_Johnny pounded on the door. "Fire department," he called. "Anybody home?" he added as he tried the door. It opened to darkness._

"_Kelly, get the flashlights," Cap ordered._

"_Fire department," Johnny repeated, taking one step across the threshold._

"_Hey, help, please," came a muffled voice._

"_Hello?" Johnny called again._

_"My buddy," the voice replied, "my buddy's caught." Chet returned to the porch, flashlights in hand. He passed one to the captain, and moved in behind Johnny with the other._

_"Let's move," said Cap. "DeSoto, Stoker, circle left; Lopez, you and I will go right. Kelly, back up Gage inside."_

_"I just need one guy," came the voice._

_Johnny heard the click of the flashlight being turned on as he took a cautious step forward. He never saw the beam. The door slammed shut, closing him off from the light, from Chet, from the rest of the crew._

_"Where are you?" Nothing. "Where's your friend?"_

_"Right here," something growled in his ear._

_"Cap," he yelled, turning back the way he had come. "Hey, Cap!"_

_"Cap. Hey, Ca-ap," his echo mocked him. _

_He fumbled toward what he hoped was the door. His fingertips brushed the knob; before he could grasp it something grabbed him and tossed him aside. He staggered to his feet. He was grabbed again, thrown again. He tried to crawl away, but the animal in the darkness found him. He was lifted by the scruff of his neck and shaken like a rag doll._

_"Guys," he called, "Roy!"_

_Johnny was grabbed up and thrown away, only to be grabbed again. He tucked his chin and wrapped his arms protectively around his head, then pulled his legs in tight, making himself as small a target as possible. He hit a wall and heard a bone snap. Another wall, or was it the floor, and a new pain coursed through him. Another hit, another ominous sound from inside his body, another pain._ _He didn't know how long it had been going on when it stopped as suddenly as it had begun. He lowered his arms as much as he could and lifted his head. He looked around. _Is that a light? _It was light, the narrowest slivers of light coming together to draw a rectangle in the wall. _A door! _He held back a cry of hope, afraid the sound would draw the attention of the animal whose chew toy he had become. _Please. Oh G-d, please._ Slowly, so slowly, as gently and as quietly as possible, he made his way toward the light._

_The journey to the door was interminable. When he finally arrived, it opened easily; he mouthed a word of thanks for that small bit of good fortune._

_Johnny was as blind in the whiteness on the other side as he had been in the blackness behind him. Still, he pulled himself forward. The heat struck him hard and fast. For a brief moment he considered turning around. He could hide from the animal in the dark until the crew came, couldn't he? There was nowhere to hide from the heat. He cast a glance back to the door through which he had just come. It was gone. The house was gone. The crew was gone. And he burned._

_"Johnny, Baby?"_

_"Mom," he tried to call back. His voice betrayed him; it was small, weak. "Mom!" he tried again._

_"Honey, talk to me." Her voice was fainter, farther away._

_"John, answer your mother." This voice, so much like John's own, trying to sound firm, was too filled with worry._

_"Pop! I'm here!"_

_But that voice, too, was moving away. "Son?"_

_"Baby, please."_

_Johnny heard her tears. He felt a familiar sting in his own eyes. "Mom! Pop!" He listened to their voices fade as their distance from him grew. They hadn't heard him. He was too beaten to follow but follow he did, dragging himself toward the sound of them. He was so slow. The heat slowed him even further. "Mom," he called again as loudly as he could. "Help me! Pop? Please?" He couldn't move anymore. So hot. "Please!"_

_"He's a fireman." That voice, the one that had drawn him into the house. "They like the heat." So much heat. "They like the heat." Too much heat. "They like the heat." Burning! "He's a fireman." Dying._

"Mom!" Johnny woke with a start. Part of him knew it had been a dream, but another part knew just as certainly that it wasn't. His parents were there, somewhere. He tried to sit up. Panic set in when he couldn't move. He broke out in a cold sweat. His breathing became labored.

"Good morning." Another familiar voice speaking simple words, laden with concern. With concerted effort Johnny focused, slowed his breathing, and turned toward the voice. "Maybe I should say 'Good afternoon'."

"Roy." The greeting was flat, emotionless. He was more awake now, and calm. Then memory flooded in. He swallowed hard against the panic that threatened to return with it. His parents had been here. He'd sent them away. Now his friend.

"How're you doing?"

"Swell."

Roy nodded, ignoring the sarcasm. "You … um, well … you look … better."

"Gee, thanks." An awkward silence fell between them. Roy began to fidget. Rarely was there silence between them, and never before had there been awkwardness. "You don't have to stay, you know."

"Do you want me to go?"

Before Johnny could reply the door opened and a nurse swept in carrying a meal tray. "Hi, Johnny," the pretty blonde chirped as she set the tray on his overbed table. "Hello, Roy," she turned her smile to him as she raised the head of the bed so that Johnny was sitting up.

"Delores." Roy's smile fell upon seeing the grim expression Johnny wore.

She pulled what they soon realized was a disposable adult bib from the tray and shook it out. "Um … uh … Dee," Johnny balked, "I … um … I … do-do we really have to do this _now_?"

"Don't you feel well? What's wrong?" She dropped the bib next to the tray and lay her hand across his forehead. Finding it cool she quickly moved her fingers to his neck to take his pulse.

"I'm fine," he tried to sound reassuring. "Roy is here now."

She reached for the bib again. "I'm sure Roy won't mind."

"_I_ mind!" The bib fell to the floor and she jumped back a step as Roy moved in.

Delores Bamford had met John Gage at the start of both their medical careers. Already a firefighter, Johnny was at Rampart training to be a paramedic while Delores was working in the ER on her final rotation as a nursing student. Their first date had been on his birthday, to a party Dixie had thrown him at her home. They'd dated for a while, and it had been fun, but, while the relationship had been affectionate, romance had never fully blossomed. There had been no heavy break-up, and fondness remained. Or so Delores had thought. She'd seen Johnny angry before, he could get quite wound up, and they'd had their share of disagreements, but in all the time they'd known one another, he'd never lost his temper with her. As she thought about it, she realized that, as intense as he could sometimes be, she'd never actually seen him lose his temper at all. He'd also never before experienced anything like what he was going through now. "I'm sorry, Johnny," she offered.

"No, Dee, I-I'm sorry. I just … I-I can't … I don't … Can-can we do it later?"

Her smile slowly returned, smaller, softer. "I guess I can send the tray down late. Not too late, though, ok? I have to … it has to be a nurse, you know." Johnny gritted his teeth. "Just this first time. This is the next step. I know it's just hospital food, but it is solid food. And Johnny, you've gotten so thin. If you do as well with this as you've been doing, then Dr. Brackett can pull that tube. That's the first real step to getting you out of here. Don't you want that?"

Yes, he wanted the feeding tube removed, and he longed for solid food, she was right about that, too. A nurse's presence was required to ensure he could swallow and that his system could handle solid food again, and, of course, to be on hand if he couldn't. _I do want to get out here, but ..._ but there was more going on, so much more. "Please, Dee? Later."

Her response was preempted by the knock at the door. "Mr. Gage?" A man of about 40 years old entered. He was tall and trim and had dark, thinning hair. He moved with an athleticism that contradicted the suit he wore. Johnny nodded in response to his question. The man took a quick glance around the room. "Mr. DeSoto," he extended his hand to Roy, "good to see you again." He smiled at Delores. "Miss Bamford," he noted her nameplate, then returned his attention to Johnny. "I'm Assistant District Attorney George Belosi. Can we talk?"

Glad for the interruption but not eager to speak with the man, Johnny turned to the nurse with a forced grin. "Dee?"

She moved the tray to the nightstand and placed the coffee back on the table, which she then raised and positioned so Johnny could reach it easily. "I'll see you later, Johnny." In one quick move she opened the straw and dropped it into the coffee cup. "Mr. Belosi," she nodded her good-bye. "Roy," she stopped with her hand on the door, "if you leave before I get back, don't forget to leave this open," and she was gone.

Belosi turned to find Johnny staring at him suspiciously. He smiled, hoping to put John at ease. He failed. He cleared his throat. "Mr. Gage — "

"I can't help you."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm sorry." Johnny didn't seem at all sorry. He was calm, however, somehow too calm. "I know why you're here. Detective McCluskey's already been here. I can't help you."

Belosi nodded in understanding. There had been the chance that the victim still wouldn't remember but it was a chance that had to be taken. McCluskey had come almost as soon as Gage had awakened. The doctors had warned that, although awake, that did not necessarily mean Gage was beyond the effects of drugs, especially in light of how long he'd been on them, and that, combined with the trauma, could affect his memory. The case was moving and McCluskey had insisted. Belosi had to try again. Perhaps now that there'd been time for the drugs to clear, he'd get better results. He had already achieved that with nearly everyone who had been interviewed by both himself and McCluskey, especially the firemen. He hoped his victim would be no different. "That was almost a week ago," he pointed out.

"I don't remember."

The lawyer put his briefcase on the table to open it and removed a large manila envelope. "There is a chance that we could jog your memory— "

"No!" Johnny eyed the envelope. That's when Roy saw it, the one thing in all of this he was afraid Johnny might not get past: humiliation. McCluskey had shown Johnny the pictures. Roy had learned from Brackett and Dixie when McCluskey had come. Johnny hadn't mentioned it and, though he had his suspicions, he'd had no idea how that meeting had actually gone until now. He thought about his own meeting with the detective, and the subsequent meeting with Belosi. He knew that, eventually, Johnny would have to see those horrible pictures. Eventually, but not then, not as soon as he'd awakened. And not with all the hateful innuendo. _Damn it, McCluskey!_

John's breathing grew faster, but, with an effort, he quickly brought it under control. With an additional effort he looked Belosi square in the eye. He was calm. So calm. "I remember the Andersons and I've already spoken with a Ms. Pierce in your office about that. I remember a couple of police officers, and something about Humphrey Bogart, I think.

"I know what happened to me happened on a run at a laundry but I don't remember it. I don't remember anything about it. And if this," his eyes trailed quickly down his body, "is the result, then maybe it's better that I don't." He swallowed hard. Without realizing it, his gaze had returned to the envelope still in Belosi's hand, only partially removed from the briefcase.

Roy stood very still. He wanted to tell the ADA to put those damn pictures away, he wanted stand by his partner, literally as well as figuratively, but Johnny was no fool. Roy knew that any overt gesture on his part and Johnny would know that Roy, too, had seen the pictures. _I can at least protect you from that, Junior. For now, anyway._

Belosi returned the envelope to the case, which he quickly closed and placed on the floor, out of Johnny's sight. "I am sorry, Mr. Gage. I appreciate that this must be terribly difficult for you— "

"Difficult? You think this is difficult?"

"Johnny..." Again Roy was struck by the feeling that Johnny was too calm.

Johnny smiled at him. It was cold. John turned his attention to Belosi, but Roy was sure what his partner said next was meant as much for him as it was for the attorney. "What's so difficult? I don't go anywhere; I don't do anything. Nothing." He looked away and swallowed hard, then turned back to face his visitor, his lips curled in an effort to retain the smile that never reached his eyes. "Do you know why Dee told my partner over there to leave the door open?"

It took Belosi a moment to realize that John actually wanted him to answer. "Oh, well, I — "

"It's the same reason I'm in this room."

"This room?"

"Yes, Mr. Belosi, the room closest to the nurses' station." He stared at his visitor. Despite John's incapacitation, a lesser man might have been intimidated. A lesser public servant would not have seen the fear Gage was working so hard to conceal. Johnny pulled the straw into his mouth and took a long, deliberate sip of his coffee, then held up his broken hands as much as his broken arms would allow. "I can't pick up a coffee cup, I can't press the call button for the nurse." He let his hands drop to his sides. "I'm in this room, with the door open whenever I'm alone, so they can keep an eye on me. So they can hear me call. That I can do; I can cry out like a baby." The false smile faltered. "I can't do much of anything else. I can't walk, I can't feed myself, I can't even push a lousy button, and I can't remember what happened." The façade began to crack. "Don't you think I want to? It's bad enough not remembering, but someone did this to me and they'll probably get away with it because _I can't remember_."

"Mr. Gage," George Belosi stared back, "I'm not going to lie to you, I need your help. The best chance at getting these guys what they deserve is in your testimony. That being said, I will prosecute them to the full extent of the law and I will do everything in my power to see that they are punished as much as possible."

Johnny held his gaze, sizing him up. Finally he nodded. "How?" He blinked. Or so it appeared. Belosi recognized the gesture for what it was. A tell. Johnny revealed his greatest concern. His eyes had flicked down toward the briefcase, the pictures.

"I offer to reduce the charges in exchange for a guilty plea. It would mean they won't get as much time as they should but it will get them behind bars sooner, with no chance to appeal. If it does go that way I will insist the deal include allocution."

"What does that mean?"

"It's a statement to the court by the defendant, in this case defendants, prior to sentencing. My purpose would be to have them state on the record what they did. If I can't keep them locked up for a full stretch, I can at least see to it that the record clearly reflects their guilt."

Johnny was nodding. "And if they won't? Make this bargain, I mean." Again, the tell-tale blink.

"I won't sugar-coat this. It means taking every piece of evidence I have into court and convincing the jury that these guys wanted to hurt you and then did."

Johnny inhaled sharply. "Every piece of evidence?"

"Including your testimony. Witnesses can put you alone in the room with the defendants, and the doctors can explain the condition in which you left that room. Ideally, you would tell the jury exactly what they did and how they did it, eliminate any doubt as to their intentions, let alone reasonable doubt. Barring that, you're the face of this case. You're not just a catalog of medical information; you're a real person who's suffered real damage and all the pain and suffering that comes with it." He paused, then locked eyes with John. "May I be blunt?" Gage nodded. "You're young, attractive, popular, and you risk your life to help other people for a living. I couldn't ask for a more sympathetic victim."

Another nod, slower, drawn out, as Johnny considered what he'd just been told. Then the tell. "What if ... What if I don't want to press charges?"

_Oh, Johnny, no._ Roy clenched his jaw but maintained his silence.

"I'm afraid that's not up to you," Belosi said as gently as he could. He watched the young man in the bed for a minute. He felt he'd gotten to know John Gage. He'd spent a lot of time on this case, time that included speaking with his family, friends, and coworkers. "Is that what you want?"

A glance out the window, to Roy, then back to the DA. "No," Johnny finally replied. "No."

Belosi had expected no less. "I'll do what I can." He let his own gaze flick to the briefcase then back to John. When he was sure they understood one another he smiled. "I'll be in touch."

As soon as they were alone Roy moved closer to his friend's side. "Would you really do that?" Johnny looked to him questioningly. "Not press charges?"

There was no reply for a long time. Roy was about to change the subject. "I thought about it." Johnny chuckled. It was as cold as his smile had been. "Obviously." He searched Roy's face, his eyes alight with the hope of finding answers. Roy was struck by the realization that it was the way Chris looked at him when he couldn't find his way, when he needed his Daddy. Suddenly Johnny looked very young indeed. "This not remembering …" Again he fell silent.

"Johnny …"

"I know what happened. It's kind of hard to miss from here. I got the medical details from the doctors. Detective McCluskey sh— told me the how." His eyes bored into Roy's. "It's like it happened to someone else. I felt sorry for the guy." He continued looking toward Roy, but no longer at him. Through him. "Even here, like this, I just keep imagining myself as the paramedic. I should feel something more about it, but I don't."

"No?"

"I wonder how I would have handled it if I was on that rescue. If I saw a victim like that. If I knew someone did that deliberately."

Roy stepped closer to the bed. "You would have handled it like you handle every rescue. Like a professional."

"Yeah. I was real professional with Missy Tyro, wasn't I? I left my dinner all over the street."

"That's different. Missy Tyro was …" _No, Johnny. It is different. It has to be._

"Was what? She was raped, Roy, and you knew it. That poor kid. And she has to live with it every day."

"Missy will have her day in court. So will you."

"Not if I can't remember. And if I don't — I guess it doesn't matter. They're going to be prosecuted no matter what, you heard the D.A. But what if he doesn't have enough? What if they get off? What if they get off and do this to somebody else because I couldn't remember?"

"Johnny, I —"

"It's ok." Johnny tried to smile, then became quite serious. "Look, if I don't do everything I can to put those guys away and then they go do this to someone else … We can't save everybody, but we do have to at least try, right? It's why I became a paramedic. I have to try." Roy nodded his understanding. The brief silence that fell between them was comfortable, until Johnny spoke again. "I just wish …"

"What?"

"You and the guys weren't in the middle of this mess."

"Where else would we be? One of us was down, that's what matters. The guys did great, you should be real proud."

"Yeah?" For the first time since this began Johnny smiled, really smiled. It was small, but genuine.

"Yeah. Lopez and Stoker got all the equipment to me, Cap handled the biophone like a pro, and Kelly, well, he really came through. He shut down the dryer, and took care of the ice. There wasn't any, ice, so he took Stoker to bust open the pop machine. That's how we got your temp down. Things were moving pretty fast, and between the splints and the burn pack you were wrapped and ready to roll in no time." The relief in Johnny's eyes was clear. Then it dimmed. "I was concerned about what injuries might show up later, you know how some can take a while to appear, but we got you here to Rampart so fast, even if something else did come up you were already in doctors' hands." It was back, the relief, and with it, gratitude.

Johnny shifted his weight as well as he could, then leaned in for another sip of his coffee. "So how are things at the station?"

"Not too bad. Haven't had a chance to get used to anyone else, though." Johnny grimaced at that, but it was as good natured as the jibe itself. "Wheeler was with us for a while. Apparently he had vacation time he had to use but he put in for the overtime so we got him."

"Any rescues make the paper? Maybe a photo with a 51 somewhere? Or was his time off from 110's time off from the press?"

_If you only knew. _ "No, no pictures in the paper this time.

"Belliveau covered a few shifts; it was nice to work with him again."

"When did you work with Belliveau?"

"Didn't exactly work with him. You know we were in that first paramedic class out of Harbor together. I guess I should have said it was nice to be in the field with him.

"Charlie Hagan from B shift did a couple of doubles, and Charlie Wilson from C shift pulled a few. My beef bourguignon aside, we never ate better." Johnny rolled his eyes at Roy's botched attempt to pronounce _bourguignon_ and his smile broadened.

"I'm sorry I missed it."

"Yeah. He may only be second chef at La Pavillion, but his food sure is first rate. You were right, the guys on C shift are real lucky."

The conversation was comfortable, relaxed, Johnny was smiling, even laughing with his friend. Then Delores returned. The change in John's demeanor was instantaneous. He asked her to excuse them for just another minute, when she did he turned to Roy solemnly.

"What's wrong?"

"Listen, Roy … I'm probably getting out of here next week."

"I know, it's great! Johnny, I —" The look in Johnny's eyes stopped him. "Tell me."

He thought for a minute, struggling to find the words. "I don't know how."

"Just say it. I know you're dealing with a lot, but this is a big step, why aren't you happy about it?"

"Oh, I am. I am," he insisted a bit too earnestly for Roy's liking. "It's just …" His jaw clenched tightly as he worked to organize his thoughts. "I … I really ap-p-preciate you being here a-a-and coming as much as you do, but … Roy," he looked into Roy's eyes, using all his strength to not look away. "I-I-I … I don't … I don't want you to come back. A-a-and the guys, tell them … "

Roy inhaled sharply, but managed to maintain his cool, if only on the outside. "Why would you ask that?"

"When Dee comes back … Dee's coming back to feed me." He looked at Roy desperately, hoping he'd said enough.

"I know. So what?"

"I have to be fed, Roy." He turned away, ashamed. "A-a-and solid food … means solid —"

"Ok! Ok, I get it. But Johnny, this is temporary. It's due to your medical situation and that will change for the better. It is changing."

"I know that. I-I-I … I just … I-I can't." _Deep breath. Focus._ "It was different before. Broth, coffee, juice, even this tube up my nose, it's all liquid. All I needed were the straws and the Foley took care of the rest. It's not like I thought you didn't see it there o-o-or know what was going on, but it-it's different. It's hard enough to talk about, but now, I … I can't do it, Roy. I-I can't have you here, seeing me fed and cleaned up like —"

"Johnny, I won't be in the room for that. And if you're that uncomfortable I can leave the room when you're eating —"

"DAMN IT, ROY!" Once again they faced each other. Johnny's eyes revealed the war going on inside and Roy felt as if his own heart would break. "You want me to say it? Fine! I'm helpless! Does it make you happy to hear me say it? I am completely and totally helpless, and it's going to get worse before it gets any better.

"A-A-And you're right, it will change. As soon as the casts come off they're sending me to a nursing home. Don't say it; I already got the speech from Brackett. Rehab. It's still a damn nursing home a-and I … I-I-I can't … I can't do it, Roy. I-I can't do what I have to do with-with people a-around."

Roy sighed heavily. He wanted to understand. He did understand some of it. He understood Johnny not wanting anyone to see him being fed, or to be anywhere around for the inevitable result of having eaten. He'd known Johnny would hate the nursing home, but, try as he might, he simply did not understand his partner pushing him away so completely.

As if reading his thoughts, Johnny said quietly, "Roy, I'm not asking to you leave me behind or-or anything like that. But, for now, I just … It's harder now, than when I first woke up. It probably shouldn't be, but it is, and I can't stand the idea of anyone seeing me like this. I know you don't get it. I hope you never do," he added softly. "I'm not asking you to get it. My folks sure don't. I'm just asking you to respect it."

Roy nodded slowly. "Your folks. Is that why they're not here now?"

"Yeah." He swallowed. "They only left for the day … this time. They'll be back in the morning after breakfast to say goodbye, then they're heading back to Santa Barbara. Believe me, they didn't like it either. But my father said I'm a grown man now so it's my decision, and Mom said they could respect it without liking it or agreeing with it." He snickered. "She also called me a horse's tail end and said they'd call every day and be back next month whether I like it or not."

Roy smiled and thought carefully before he spoke again. "Ok, if this is really what you want. I don't agree and I don't like it either, but I guess your parents are right. But I'm also not going to go away completely. I'm going to call you every shift, even if it's from right downstairs."

"Roy, please. I appreciate that, but … Check in on me, I'll give whatever permission I have to, that's fine. I-It's … it's not your knowing, it … it's … Please?"

Roy sighed. He hated this. He hated what Johnny was asking of him, he hated that John felt this was what he needed, most of all he hated that it seemed the best way he could help his friend was to abandon him. It went against everything Roy was, as a firefighter, as a partner, a friend, as a man. He knew there was more to it than the embarrassment and that he'd never fully understand it. He hadn't missed Johnny's comment, and, while grateful, he couldn't shake the feeling that while John might not remember the specifics, there was a deeper pain than any of his physical injuries had caused, down to the young man's very soul. "Ok, Johnny, if that's what you really want. Under two conditions." Johnny eyed him expectantly. "You're expecting visitors in a month, I'm going to be one of them."

"And?"

"And if you change your mind, even for a second, you'll call me. I won't tell the guys, or call your parents, if that's what you want, but you're not alone, and you don't have to go through this alone. Remember that."

Johnny sank back into his pillows, his relief evident. "Deal. You'll have to take my word for it, though, I can't shake on it."

Delores chose that moment to return. As she stepped into the room, Roy grabbed the open door to make his exit.

"Hey, Roy?" Johnny called, stopping him. "Thanks, man."

Roy nodded and smiled sadly and was gone.

**Scene**** Two**

"Come on, Roy," Chet whined, "you must've misunderstood."

"Sorry, Chet. For now, anyway, that's the way he wants it."

"Come on," the whining continued. "Gage wouldn't do that."

Roy shook his head almost imperceptibly as he set the coffee pot back on the stove before turning around to face the rest of his crew. Although saddened and disappointed, they'd all tried to accept Johnny's wishes for no visitors. All, that is, but one. "He would. He did."

"But — "

"Look, I don't like it any better than you do, but if this is the way he wants it then this is what we'll do."

"But why?" Chet asked sullenly. "Why would he want that at a time like this? I don't get it." Marco and Mike were both shaking their heads in silent agreement.

"Neither did I," Roy admitted. "I still don't, not completely."

"What can you tell us, Roy," Cap prompted when he did not continue.

What could he tell them? What could he say that would help them to understand without bringing any further embarrassment to Johnny? Finally he realized the truth really was best. "Guys, he's embarrassed."

"Embarrassed? About what," Marco asked sincerely.

Roy smiled. It was comforting that the others not only wanted to go support Johnny, but that they sincerely saw no reason for any embarrassment on his part.

It had already been a long road. First there was Johnny's stay in isolation. Though his parents had come to Los Angeles right away, even they could only see him through the window. Once he was past the particular dangers that had landed him there, he had remained sedated until all the burns had healed and all the broken bones properly cast. His parents were the only visitors allowed during that time and he hadn't even known they were there. Then, finally, just about a week ago, Johnny was awake. Unfortunately, outside of his parents, McCluskey was his first visitor. Following that visit word had been left, immediate family only. Even Johnny's extended family, eager to come and support him and his parents, had been asked to stay away for a while longer. The word didn't reach Roy. He'd learned Johnny's room number and when he was to have been awakened. He'd waited to allow Johnny time to be with his family and adjust as much as possible, but the following day, a work day, he'd gone directly from the ER after depositing a patient. He'd known it would be a very limited visit, he knew Johnny would be tired, and have his family around anyway. He was eager to see how John was and to be there for him. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but he'd been surprised by just how down Johnny was. Even in light of all John had been through, Roy knew there was something more going on. On his way out he'd gotten confirmation. He'd caught Brackett between calls at the base station, where the good doctor and Dixie had filled him in. McCluskey.

On the bright side, he'd had the opportunity to meet Johnny's parents, and they were as pleased to meet Roy as he'd been to meet them. Johnny was distant, withdrawn, but seemed to perk up when Roy came around, so his parents had asked that Roy be the one exception to the family only visitation.

At first the crew did understand. In addition to the physical damage, Gage had lost a month. More than that, since he didn't remember what had happened, he just woke up one day a month later than he thought it was, all busted up. At least it was his doctors and family that told him he'd been attacked, because, after finding that out, the first thing he'd had to face upon waking was McCluskey. A collective shudder had run through them when Roy shared that bit of information. They'd expected it to be rough for John, and they'd been eager to go show him their support. Anger, self-pity, doubt, even fear. They thought they were prepared for whatever he'd throw at them and that they'd all come together to help him through it. None of them were prepared for this.

"He's just feeling sorry for himself," Chet insisted. "If we just go in there and treat him normal he'll know he has nothing to worry about."

"It's not that simple," Cap offered. All eyes turned to him. "All else being equal, the injuries, the time lost, the memory, if the situation were due to a fire or a rescue gone bad, I'd probably agree. This was an assault. Gage was the victim of violent crime. Even if we give those bo— men who did it the benefit of the doubt, that they just intended to rope him into their fraternity nonsense and the prank went too far, they still took deliberate action that resulted in John being where he is now. He has to reconcile that in addition to his physical situation, not to mention the legal fallout, which McCluskey's style and timing couldn't have helped."

"So what do we do, Cap," Marco asked. "How do we help him?"

"For now, by respecting his wishes, and being ready when he changes his mind."

"You sure he will?"

"Yeah, Kelly." Mike chimed in. "Maybe not as soon as we'd like, but yes. He will." Cap smiled as he saw his crew take comfort in the engineer's certainty; unnoticed by all but the captain himself, Roy especially.

The door from the parking lot slammed open and a large man with a larger smile and wearing a paramedic uniform entered the kitchen. He adjusted the duffel bag on his shoulder and went directly to Cap. "Captain Hammer? Name's Bellingham, I've been assigned."

"Welcome to 51's, Bellingham," Cap offered his hand, "go stow your gear. Roy, show him a locker and let Dwyer know he can hit the road. Roll call in five."

With a quick look at his watch, Chet piped up, "Cutting it a little close there, aren't you Bellingham?"

Bellingham laughed. "I ain't late yet," he replied as he followed Roy to the door.

Before they had left the rec room the klaxon sounded. The station was called upon for an unknown rescue. Only Cap noticed the clenching of Roy's fists and jaw when the address came over the speaker.

**Scene**** Three**

The squad pulled up in front of the fraternity house with the engine right behind. They were greeted by a blonde young man in a cheerleader's uniform and full makeup.

"Back there," he told them "I think he broke his leg." He turned back toward the house. Roy set his jaw and pulled the biophone and drug box from the squad. With Bellingham, equipment in hand, and the engine crew close behind, he followed the young man to the back of the house.

All eyes but Bellingham's shifted to Roy upon seeing their patient. The house, along with its neighboring fraternity houses, was backed by an open field. Laying in the middle of this field, dressed in his football uniform, lay Jack Webber.

Roy manned the biophone, leaving his partner to get the vitals and assess the patient, while Cap shooed the crowd back. Two people didn't move as far back as the rest, and stood watching with great interest as DeSoto and Bellingham worked. Stewart Zeciak and Erik Towne. Stewart was dressed in the same cheerleader uniform and make-up as the student who had greeted them; Towne, like Webber, was in his football uniform.

While the paramedics were working, Sheriff's deputy Bob Pauling came on the scene just behind campus security. "Just a friendly touch football game," Erik replied when asked what had happened. "I guess some of us got carried away."

"That'll happen when you get all geared up," scoffed the security man.

"Well, uh …" Towne stammered, "it's … um … well …"

"Only one side was in gear." Roy looked up. Stewart had stepped over to the officers.

Deputy Pauling was staring at the boys in the cheerleader uniforms. "Pledges," the security officer explained. "Hazing." Roy suppressed a shudder. He'd had enough of fraternity hazing to last him a lifetime.

"Hey DeSoto," Bellingham got his attention, "what do you think?"

"Yeah, what's the verdict?" Jack eyed the paramedic warily. The recognition had been mutual.

Roy took a deep, calming breath and met Webber's eyes. "It looks like you dislocated your knee."

"So it's not broken," Jack asked, relieved.

Roy shook his head. "I don't think so." As instructed by Dr. Morton, Bellingham administered the pain meds, then Roy gently splinted the knee. He had just finished when the ambulance attendants appeared with the gurney. He passed the biophone and drug box to Bellingham. "You ride in."

It was only a matter of minutes before the ambulance was on it's way. Most of the ball players and "cheerleaders" had made their way back into the house. Roy had gathered up his equipment and turned to leave when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find himself looking into the made-up face of Stewart Zeciak.

"That was far out," the boy said.

Roy shook his head. "Thanks. Just doing my job."

"No, I don't mean the medical stuff," Stewart continued. "I mean, that's pretty great too, but it's not what I'm talking about." Roy looked at him questioningly. "You were so cool. After what happened to your friend, and you were totally cool. What he did ... and you helped him. Man, I don't think I could do that."

"He hurt you, too. Even if he didn't put you in that washer, he was one of the people that made that happen." Roy took another deep breath before he continued. "From the way you reacted when my partner went into that back room, you've seen it before. Maybe it was you, maybe it was one of the others. I'll bet it was all of you at one point or another. But here you are, still trying to get into this fraternity. If you make it, next year you'll be on his side."

He turned his back to the boy but before he could board the squad, Roy was again intercepted. He just stared at Erik Towne without a word. The young man fidgeted under Roy's gaze until finally he offered his hand. "Thanks," was all he said.

Roy stared at his outstretched hand, then turned and got into the truck. "You're welcome." He started the engine and, as quickly as he safely could, drove away.

**Scene**** Four**

The week was finally winding down. It had been lonely, but as he bit back the threatening tears, Johnny knew he'd made the right decision. His mind was spinning, and taking his heart and stomach along, as the orderly wheeled his gurney down to radiology. If the X-rays turned out the way Brackett and Keaton, the orthopedist, expected, the casts would come off that afternoon and the real work could begin. It also meant leaving Rampart. If only he could go home and do the physical therapy as an outpatient. He sighed. Much as he might have wished otherwise, he knew that wasn't an option. Even if he could feed himself yet, he couldn't cook, couldn't even slap together a sandwich. _ Besides, I'll never get my strength back on sandwiches. I could order out. But every meal? I can't afford that. Or the taxis I would have to take everywhere. And how would I get to the taxi? Mom and Pop would come back down if I asked them to. If it was just driving and cooking _…_ Is Pop going to carry me everywhere and lift me in and out of the bathtub? Do you really want that? Sure, why not. And Mom can spend all her time caring for me just like she did when I was a baby. _He laughed bitterly.

"You say something," the orderly asked.

"Nah," Johnny hoped he sounded casual, "Just thinking."

"Cool, man." They continued their trip in silence.

_And now that __you're eating solids and __the catheter's out — Stop it, Gage! Keaton would never approve outpatient therapy. What if he would? Mom and Pop's diaper days are long gone, even if yours aren't. For now. Yours aren't done _for now. _Do you really want them changing your diapers? Besides, they knew about this before you did and they ok'd it. They can't take care of you and you don't really want them to. __You don't want them seeing you fed and diapered let alone doing it a__nd you don't want them to see you in a damn nursing home! Just keep reminding yourself, this is temporary, just like Roy said. Roy. You just miss them. _He clenched his jaw as another bitter laugh threatened to escape. _Poor wittle Johnny Gage, misses his Mommy and Daddy. I do miss them. I miss Roy, and the guys … I miss ... I miss me. _He sighed.

"Ok, man?"

"Sorry." The orderly who had transported him was standing beside him in the radiology department waiting area. He'd not only not noticed they'd arrived, he'd been so preoccupied with his own thoughts he hadn't heard the man talking to him.

"'S'all right, man, you got a lot going on," the orderly smiled. "All I was saying is, have the tech call upstairs when you're ready, somebody'll be right down here to get you. Ok?"

"Sure." Johnny tried to return the smile.

There was only one other patient in the waiting area, a blonde girl in a wheelchair wearing a pink bathrobe over her hospital gown who appeared to be in her mid to late teens. There was an overwhelming sadness about her. Although she had ducked her head so that her hair hid her face, he realized that, through her hair, she was staring at him.

"Hi," he said softly. She flinched just a bit at the sound of his voice, and turned her head slightly, but continued to watch him through the curtain of her hair. "I won't hurt you," he offered gently. _You can probably do me a lot more harm than I could you anyway._

"I know you," she whispered. "You were there."

"Where?"

"That night. You helped me." She turned slightly toward him and timidly tucked her hair behind her ear. "You shouldn't have done that."

"Of course I should, Missy. May I call you Missy?" She nodded once. "Thank you. I'm Johnny."

"You're wrong, Johnny," she insisted. "You should have let me die."

Johnny was as horrified by her matter-of-fact tone as he was by her words. "No, Missy. No."

"Why not?"

"What?"

"Why not let me die? I deserve to die."

Before Johnny could think of a response Missy was sitting up straight, a small bottle in her hand. She quickly opened it and poured it's contents over herself. He recognized the smell immediately. _Ether! _He knew the only source in the hospital was locked away in the research labs, but he had no time to wonder how she'd gotten her hands on it. "What are you going to do?"

"I told you," her voice cracked on the tears she refused to shed. She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a lighter.

The tech was right in the next room, probably able to hear him if he yelled, but the last thing Johnny wanted to do was anything that might startle or frighten the girl in any way.

"Please don't do this."

"I have to, don't you see?"

"No, Missy, I don't see. You've been through something terrible, something no one should ever have to go through, and you got through it. You survived, and it will get better. It doesn't seem like it now, but it will." She was watching him. Though she was fingering the lighter, she did seem to be listening. Encouraged, Johnny continued. "What about the people who care about you? My partner, for one."

"Mr. DeSoto. Yeah, he's cool. He's been real nice to me." She paused. "You were, too. I mean, I know you were trying to help me. Thank you." She looked up and, for the first time, really looked at him. "What happened to you?"

Startled by the sudden change of subject, Johnny stammered for a moment before he replied. "I don't really know." It was brief, but he saw it. Fear in her eyes. "I mean, I know, they told me, I just … that's how I know, from what I was told. I don't actually remember it."

"What did they tell you?"

He thought carefully for a moment. He had to do more than just distract her, he had to convince her, at least until she could get the help she really needed. To do that he had to have her trust.

"Roy— Mr. DeSoto and our crew and I, we were called out to help a boy who'd gotten hurt in some prank. Seems they thought it would be a real gas to try something on someone outside their fraternity and it went all wrong. They …"

"They hurt you." He looked down his body, all taped and splinted and cast, _Oh, my! _He let himself smile, hoping it was as reassuring for her as it felt to himself. "I'm really sorry. No one should be hurt like this." The pictures McCluskey had showed him suddenly flashed through his mind. How badly had he been hurt? In what way? In spite of what he'd seen he still hadn't broached the subject with any of his doctors. What did she see, did they have that in common?

"You're the one from the newspapers," she said.

Again she changed the subject suddenly. "The papers?" Unable to turn the pages, Johnny hadn't bothered with newspapers.

"Mostly. I guess since there's really nothing for them to show the TV isn't really getting into it. It weird. At first it was all about how some fireman basically lost it and hurt the boys he was there to help." Johnny swallowed, but remained silent.

_No wonder everybody insisted on reading to me from magazines and books. And I didn't even notice they were all avoiding the papers._

"They changed, though. The stories, I mean. They're not talking about it as much, but when they do it's all about the paramedic program and all the good stuff it does. They're printing old pictures and reinterviewing people that were helped and talking about waiting to see what happens in court 'cause maybe there's more to the story. It's almost like they suddenly remembered firemen are the good guys and switched sides."

_Or they found a way to make it sexy again to sell more papers._

"Do you think you'll win? In court, I mean."

"I hope so. Fact is, I do want to see them punished. Nobody should get away with hurting somebody so viciously," he said pointedly.

"You're lucky you don't remember."

"I don't know about that. I can't testify to what I don't know, and if I don't, there's a good chance they'll get away with it, and do it again to other people."

"But they're still going to try? Your case is going to court anyway?"

"Of course." _Oh, no. _"Isn't yours?"

She shook her head as the tears slowly began to fall. "My father said no. He said … He worked it out with R-R ... with Ro— with his parents. As soon as the doctors say I'm well enough, we're getting married."

_What! _his mind screamed, but he forced himself to remain outwardly calm. "What about the police? There was an investigation, wasn't there," he inquired as gently as he could.

She shrugged. "We were dating. I guess it's not rape if you're in a relationship. Daddy said that's why I wasn't allowed to date, because knew this would happen. I wanted to wait until I was married, I didn't know. So now …"

"Aren't you too young?"

"In California."

"What does your mother say about all this?"

"I think she doesn't like it, but if my father said it's right then it must be. She would never go against my father. It's not her place." _Not her place? She's your _mother_, for Pete's sake. _ "'Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church.' That's Ephesians," she clarified. Johnny remembered the scene in the hospital with her father and suddenly it all made sense. "Don't you see? It doesn't matter what Mom wants, or me, or the police. The only thing that matters is what G-d wants."

"And G-d wants you to marry your rapist," he asked carefully, with none of the anger he felt, afraid if he revealed it she'd see it as directed at herself.

"'If a man meets a virgin who is not betrothed, and seizes her and lies with her, and they are found, then the man who lay with her shall give to the father of the young woman fifty shekels of silver, and she shall be his wife, because he has violated her. He may not divorce her all his days.'"

_I wonder how much fifty shekels of silver comes to in American money. Her father and her G-d. How do I tell her what crap this all is without losing her?_

"Missy, have you spoken to the rape counselor. Or maybe the hospital chaplain?"

She looked at him as though he's just asked if she'd like a slice of sunlight on her sandwich. "Why would I do that? My father is a chaplain."

"Right, sorry." He thought a minute. "What about the counselor?"

"So she can tell me my father's wrong? That the bible is wrong, that G-d is wrong? I don't think so."

As her voice rose Johnny realized just how calm she'd been up to that point. _Ok, so maybe she's not so committed to this idea of killing herself, she certainly isn't very excited about it. If only it wasn't so wrapped up in her father. _He sighed.

"It'll be ok." Now she was reassuring him. She picked up the lighter from her lap. With perfect calm, she said, "Once I do this. Really it will."

That was when he remembered. Calm in a suicidal patient was often a bad sign, a sign that the decision had been made. He blew out a little breath, using it to calm himself before he spoke. "No it won't. Dying can't be the answer, it just can't."

"Of course it is. Don't you see?"

"No, I don't. Your death can't be what your mother wants, or your father," he hurried to add, hoping he was right. "Or G-d. Isn't suicide a sin?"

"Leviticus 21:9. 'And the daughter of any priest, if she profane herself by playing the whore, she profaneth her father: she shall be burnt with fire.' See?" She opened the lighter.

"Wait! Please." His mind racing, Johnny scrambled for something to say, anything to stop her from flicking that wheel.

"I know you think you're helping me again, and I appreciate that, but you're really not." She held up the lighter. "This is the only thing that can help me now."

"No!" He took a deep breath and lowered his voice, hoping he at least sounded calm. "Missy, I can't speak for your father and I certainly can't speak for G-d. I can't believe they would want this, but I do know that they wouldn't want you to kill anyone else."

She stared at him a moment, horrified. "Of course not," she whispered.

"I'm sure you think the fire will stick to the ether, Missy, but fire isn't that predictable, or controllable. Believe me, if it was, most of my friends wouldn't have a job. What if it spreads?" He watched her as her eyes scanned the room, then wandered to the ceiling. "If the sprinklers come on too soon the job won't be finished. You'll be hurt a whole lot worse than you are now, burns are excruciating. And if they come on too late, then what about me? You said you were sorry I got hurt. If the fire spreads, I can't run away. You'll burn me. You'll kill me." Man, he hated playing that card.

It was the right card to play. She closed the lighter carefully, as if just handling it would set him on fire, and returned it to her pocket. When she looked back up at him she was weeping freely. "I'm sorry," she cried. "I would never do that. I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to hurt anyone."

"I know," he replied softly. How he wished he could go to her, comfort her somehow. Then he remembered how she had responded the last time he'd touched her and thought maybe it was better that he couldn't. "Look, Missy, is it possible maybe your father missed something?"

"What do you mean?"

"G-d is perfect, right? But men aren't. And your father is just a man, isn't he?" She nodded slowly, cautiously. "Except he's not _just_ a man, is he? He's also a father whose daughter has been hurt. Maybe your father's just so hurt and angry about what happened to you that that's all he can see right now, anger and hurt, even in the bible." He hoped he sounded more convinced than he was, or he knew he could never convince her. "The bible also says to 'Honor thy father,' right?" Another nod. "I think your compassion and patience honor him." Even as he heard himself say the words, Johnny knew his own compassion was for Missy Tyro, and struggled to find some for her father. "Your understanding of his pain, even if he doesn't seem to understand yours." A sob escaped her, and he was afraid he'd said too much.

"How do I do that?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. "How do I honor him if it's not by doing what he says?"

He thought hard. She had listened to him so far, what he said next would make all the difference.

"Could you talk to him?"

"Me?" He couldn't keep the surprise from his voice.

"You understand," she offered meekly. "You understand about G-d, and about how my father feels, and you … you were hurt, too. You understand how I feel."

Once again the images in McCluskey's photographs flashed through his mind. What exactly had caused those particular bruises? How far had the attack gone? What did Missy see in him? He shook it off, returning his attention to Missy where it belonged. "I don't think that's such a good idea." Her tears welled up again and began to fall anew. "I wish I could," he hastened to add. "I would if I really believed I would help. I don't think I will. You need someone more … more knowledgeable than I am. I really think the hospital chaplain. He's a chaplain, so he knows the bible, and he works here in the hospital, so he understands what people go through when they've been so badly injured."

Missy sniffled. Her tears slowed. "Yeah, maybe. It makes sense. Maybe you're right." Her red-rimmed eyes met his. "Maybe you should talk to him, too."

**Scene**** Five**

Johnny dropped into his wheelchair with a grunt. "If I worked … this hard … in high school," he panted, "I'd be … heading … to Munich … in October."

"You may yet," Deyvis laughed. "You're doing great, John," he continued. "Take a minute to catch your breath, then we'll head over to the table and I'll rub you down."

Johnny shook his head. "Not yet." He inhaled deeply through his nose, then blew it out slowly. Again. "Just give me … one more minute." Deep breath. "I want to go again."

"No."

"But—"

"No. For one thing, Tina's already working with another patient," he nodded toward where the other physical therapist was working with a young woman in leg braces.

"Don't need her."

"Yes, we do. It isn't safe — Why am I arguing with you? I said, 'No.' Besides, doing too much too soon can be more harmful than not doing enough. You've been here, what, four days now? And we've had this conversation four times."

"Five."

"What?"

"I've been here five days. I transferred from Rampart five days ago."

Deyvis smiled. "Right. Day one, admissions and paperwork. So we started four days ago. And you've been working your butt off, and that's great. When I first read your chart, I figured you'd need at least a year. I'm not so sure of that, anymore. But this is a process, and with hard work you can possibly speed it up, but you can't rush it. You've already made amazing progress for just four days."

"How far?"

"John —"

"How far did I walk today?"

"Seven feet."

"Seven feet," Johnny scoffed.

"Yeah, seven feet," Deyvis replied enthusiastically. "You doubled your distance in only three days. I don't know a lot people who can do that, even with relatively minor injuries. You're my star patient, man."

Johnny allowed himself a small smile. Deyvis Morancey was nearly John's height and as solid as an oak. Johnny had been sure he'd be made to wait before he was allowed to try to walk, but, on their second day together, once Deyvis was confident that Johnny could stand, with assistance, but stand nonetheless, he was allowed to take his first steps in almost two months. His legs were too weak to support his full weight; Deyvis held him up, first while he stood, then when he walked. And he had walked. Determined not to shuffle, Johnny wasn't sure what was more difficult: lifting one foot and placing it in front of the other rather than dropping it, and then probably himself, or holding any of his weight on one weak leg while he moved the other. He had walked just over three feet that first time.

"You did a lot today, John," Deyvis was saying as he lifted his patient onto the massage table and set about massaging his legs. "I understand that you're eager to walk, but you have to build your strength and muscle tone back. And don't forget your skin. The burns are healed, but the healed skin hasn't been put to work yet, either. Just because you aren't on your feet doesn't mean the exercises you're doing aren't beneficial. They are important, and you did well."

"Well," he asked sarcastically. "My partner's three-year-old could lift more weight than I did."

"Patience is not your long suit, is it John?"

"Guess not," he replied with a small sigh.

"You will get stronger. Be patient."

"Just one more stroll." Deyvis laughed and shook his head. "Five more feet." More head shaking. "Three? I know, patience."

"Especially now."

"Why," Johnny asked suspiciously.

"Well, P.T. is open seven days a week, keep up patients' momentum and strength, but — "

"But just because the department is open doesn't mean you work seven days a week."

Deyvis nodded. "You got it. You'll be working with Mona the next two days."

"Mona? I can't walk with Mona, she won't be able to hold me up."

"Not if you have no confidence in her, she won't." Johnny eyed him skeptically. "Mona is an excellent physical therapist. She won't suffer unnecessary delays. If she can't get you up herself then she'll take the chair and get someone else to take lead for that part of your session."

"Sure," Johnny replied flatly. She'll take the chair. Like Tina had done today. She had walked slowly behind him with the wheelchair, far enough back to ensure his progress was not impeded, close enough that he could just drop into it with little or no warning should it be necessary. From the beginning, his walks were a three-person affair. He had no doubt that Mona was a fine therapist, but what if there was no one available strong enough to hold him up. If he had any strength at all in his arms he could use the parallel bars, or even a walker, but his arms were even weaker than his legs. Even if they weren't, his hands were. He couldn't grip the equipment well enough to hold himself up anyway. He had to keep walking, he had to add feet every day. He had a promise to keep. On his first day Deyvis had encouraged him to set only short-term goals at first, but that wasn't in Johnny's nature. Always moving forward, always thinking about the next step, about what he could do next and then just doing it. His recovery was no different. His parents had agreed to month. He had promised himself that upon their next visit he would take them out for lunch. He knew he wouldn't be ready to drive, but he was determined to walk to the car, walk into whatever restaurant they chose, sit at the table in a regular chair and eat like a normal person. He had less than four weeks left to make that happen.

"John?"

"Huh?"

"Where were you," Deyvis asked with a grin.

With a grin of his own, Johnny replied, "Out for walk."

He was shaking his head even as his grin broadened. "You don't give up, do you?"

"Nope."

"Good." He got Johnny situated in his wheelchair. "Come on, let's get you to dinner." He waved someone over. "Keep up the good work, John. I'll see you after my weekend." With that, Deyvis swung Johnny's chair around toward the exit and took his leave.

Johnny found himself looking up at the most interesting face he had ever seen. She was pretty, but that wasn't it. She appeared to be anywhere between 30 and 60 years old; her hair, cut stylishly short, was thick and full and shone like spun silver. She was slender and at least a full foot shorter than he, yet somehow she seemed quite tall.

"Hello, boychik."

He stiffened at the name, and then she smiled at him. He looked into her eyes, deeper than any he had ever seen and a rich shade of brown that reminded him of tilled soil. He didn't know why he had reacted to the name the way that he did, but one look into her smiling eyes and he knew it was wrong.

"Come," she continued, "let's get you in to dinner."

"NO! Sorry, no, I … I don't eat in the dining room. Please, just take me back to my room. They'll send up a tray."

She got behind him and began pushing the wheelchair. "They like everybody in the dining room. How is it you rate such special treatment?" It was then that Johnny noticed a slight accent he couldn't quite identify. It was lilting, comforting.

"I didn't realize it was special," he told her. "I guess it's better than the alternative."

"The alternative?"

"They won't let me starve."

"And you should starve why?"

"I won't eat in the dining room."

"Why you will not eat in the dining room?"

"I won't eat in the dining room _yet_. As soon as I can feed myself —" _Why did I tell her that, I don't want to talk about this. _ Something in the kindness of her smile, the gentleness of her voice, the depth of her eyes, almost demanded he be straight with her.

Suddenly his chair swung nearer the wall and stopped. Before he could consider how impressed he was that such a small woman could maneuver the chair with him in it so easily, she was squatting beside him, gazing up at him and looking so deeply into his eyes he was sure she really could see into his soul. "What brings you here, boychik?"

After a minute of looking into those eyes, he said, "There was a … an ac— " He didn't want to talk about the attack, but he didn't want to lie to this woman. There was no accident. "I was injured, broke a lot of bones. My legs, my arms," he began slowly. "Hands, feet, ribs," tumbled out after. He wanted to stop, not talk about this, but those eyes. "There were also … I couldn't move, or be moved, for a long time. My muscles … I can't even grip a fork." There was sympathy in her face, but no pity, and he shook off the self-pity he felt rising. "Yet," he added, more for himself than for her.

She smiled and stood. "Ok, boychik. Your room number is what?"

He returned the smile, knowing she saw his relief. "318."

She gently patted his knee before rising to retake her position behind his chair. "318. One stop first. Don't worry, boychik." She parked him by the dining room door and disappeared inside. In a few short minutes she had returned and they were on the move.

"What —"

"Ah, ah, ah," she scolded. "Patience, boychik. Patience."

She took him to his room, but rather than place the wheelchair next to the bed and calling for help to get him into it, she parked him by the window, brought his over-bed tray table to him, then dragged the extra chair in the room over so she could sit across from him.

"Are you going to … "

"Feed you? Not yet."

Despite his overwhelming embarrassment at being fed, he couldn't help a small smile. "Well, no, not without the tray. It's … easier in the bed, you could stand right next to me."

"This is much nicer, no? And you did say you want to feed yourself, yes?" His smile faded. "Trust me, boychik." She reached into the pocket of her pink smock, pulled out a small plastic bag, opened it and placed it on the table in front of him. It contained a peeled, sectioned orange. "Well?"

"Well?"

"You wanted to feed yourself, yes? So, feed."

Johnny reached for one of the orange segments. His fingers were still terribly stiff, and it took him a couple of tries to grasp it. He stared at it in his hand for a moment, then, slowly, brought it to his mouth. He closed his eyes as he bit into it; his taste of independence as sweet and bright as the orange itself. He finished the segment with his second bite. He opened his eyes to see her watching him with a pleased smile.

"Thank you … I don't even know your name. I'm John. Johnny Gage." He offered his hand.

She took it, gently enough to ensure his injured hands comfort, but firmly too. He took great comfort in that firm handshake. "Pleasure, Johnny. Sarah Gottmann." Her smile widened. "Eat."


	7. Act VI

**ACT VI**

**Scene ****O****ne**

Chet kicked the basketball with enough force to send it flying toward the net.

"Goal!" Marco crowed.

"Ha, ha."

"Come on, Chet."

"How long are you going to keep moping around here," inquired Mike as he grabbed up the ball and joined the linemen by Johnny's camper.

Sitting on the bumper, Chet told them, "'Til Gage comes and gets this thing out of here. Can't have a proper game with this monstrosity in the way."

"You aren't even playing," Mike pointed out.

"You never do," Marco added, "not anymore."

"Neither does Johnny," Chet snapped.

"He wouldn't want us to stop having fun just 'cause he's not here." Roy had come out to the parking lot just in time to hear Chet's last remark.

"'He wouldn't want ...' He's not dead, you know, he's coming back!"

"Chet," Marco snapped.

Chet ignored him and continued glaring at Roy.

"I hope so," Roy said quietly.

"You hope? What do you mean, you hope? Of course he's coming back."

"Kelly." Mike this time, softly, kindly.

Roy smiled. "I'm sure he'll also really appreciate your concern."

"Concern? What concern? I'm not 'concerned.' There's nothing to be concerned about; Gage is going to be fine. It's just that I finally got used to all you guys, and how we all fit."

"And how does Johnny fit," asked Roy with a small smile.

"He's a good kid, and a good sport, and I can't let him think that what those jerks did is what practical jokes are."

"What are they," Marco asked cautiously.

"Just buddies getting over on each other and sharing a laugh. Roy, remember what you said after you first saw the D.A.? When you told us those guys are insisting that what they did was a joke?"

"About what, which part?"

"You said Johnny figured out I was the phantom pranking him."

"What's your point," Roy asked, not unkindly.

"He dove right in. Thought he could get me with the old garlic in the chocolate gag."

"Yeah, he's some kind of nut, all right" Roy agreed, his smile broadening.

"Yeah. No whining or complaining ... ok, maybe a little whining, but not really. He just sputters around, then tries to do me one better. Which he never will," Chet added with a smug smile. "Gage is the perfect pigeon. He's gullible, but he's not stupid, not really. I finally got him broken in. I get a good rise out of him, then he plays, too, and ends up laughing just as much as the rest of us." He looked around. The rest of the men were smiling and nodding their understanding.

"What?" Mike was watching him intently.

"What do you mean, 'What?'" Chet snapped defensively. Mike simply raised and eyebrow; Chet continued softly. "I keep hearing him, in that dryer, calling us, asking where the hell we were.

"He's got to come back. We got to be able to show him …" He looked around again. No smiles this time, but again his crewmates were all nodding their understanding.

"What's keeping you all?" Bellingham appeared in the open bay door. "DeSoto, didn't you tell them lunch is ready?"

"Sorry." Roy headed into the station behind the others. "Just got to talking."

"Gage?" Roy nodded as his current partner fell into step beside him.

The men filed into the kitchen to find their captain waiting for them at the table. "Glad you could join us, gentlemen," he greeted them.

The regular crew took their places around the table while their most recent addition set the meal he had prepared before them before taking his own place. Soon they were all filling their plates with sloppy Joes.

"Hey Bellingham," said Chet, "did you leave any for the rest of us?"

"Huh?"

With a laugh, Chet nodded at Bellingham's chest, and the red and brown splotches there. The rest of the crew joined in the laughter when, looking down to examine those spots, a glob of meat and sauce fell from the corner of Bellingham's mouth to land in his lap.

**Scene Two**

"That's great, keep going!"

"This is therapy?"

"Yes, it is," Deyvis laughed as he tossed the two pound medicine ball back to Johnny, "and you're doing fine. Come on, just a few more, then you can go to lunch."

"Why is it," Johnny caught the ball with a grunt, "I have to work so much harder," another grunt as he used both hands to toss it back, "to accomplish so much less," he sucked down a deep breath, "with my arms than my legs." He caught the ball. "Oy!"

"Oy?"

"Must've," he heaved the ball, the two pounds feeling closer to two hundred with each consecutive throw, "picked it up," catch, "from Sarah." Throw. "Oy!"

"Last one." Johnny caught it with yet another grunt, then, with great effort, accompanied by what sounded like a sigh, tossed it back smoothly. "Good job. Come on, I'll rub you down, we should be done just in time for your girlfriend to pick you up for lunch."

"Ha ha." Once he was comfortably settled on the massage table, Johnny asked, "What's her story, anyway?"

"What do you mean?"

"I've been here about two weeks, she's always here. Doesn't she get any time off?"

"That's entirely up to her."

"What do you mean?"

"Sarah doesn't work here, she's a volunteer. If she wants time off, all she has to do is keep her name off the sheet."

"Hmm.

"How about you, any big plans this weekend?"

Deyvis laughed. "As a matter of fact, yes. I was going to talk to you about that."

"Uh-oh."

"You did well with Mona, right?"

"Well, she isn't you." Deyvis chuckled. "But we did ok."

"Good. 'Cause you've got her an extra three days next week."

"Why, what's up?"

"The kids are off from school. Since my usual weekends are weekdays, I'm taking three days and the wife and I are taking the kids on a little trip."

"That's great." Johnny tried to sound more enthusiastic than he felt. Working with Mona had not been as bad as he'd feared, but he'd built a rapport with Deyvis, and dreaded the man's days off. He knew how hard Deyvis worked with him (and worked him), and that he wasn't his only patient, but somehow Deyvis made John feel as though he were. It was only during these therapy sessions, the ones with Deyvis, that Johnny finally felt optimistic about his recovery. Deyvis did work hard, and deserved some time with his family. Johnny was glad Deyvis couldn't see his face. "What kind of trip, where are you going?"

"Well," Deyvis began slowly, "we haven't decided on an exact location yet."

"School vacation, won't a lot of families be traveling? You sure you'll get into a place this late?"

"We're not exactly looking to do the usual stuff." He paused, as if concerned about how Johnny would greet his news. "We're going camping"

"Camping? You're kidding!" Deyvis jumped a bit, startled by Johnny's enthusiasm. He had to gently but firmly press John back down when he tried to turn over. "Do you want to go fishing, too? Or be somewhere where you can swim? How old are your kids, how experienced are they? Do you want something a little closer to civilization? Commercial campgrounds might be more difficult to get into so late, but if you and your family can handle real camping I can recommend some great spots, especially for this time of year."

"This time of year?"

"Sure," Johnny exclaimed happily. "The best spots now won't necessarily be the best once summer rolls in, and there are some spots that are just incredible but not until fall. Different flowers, trees, animals, fishing, levels in lakes and rivers.

"How far outside L.A. you looking to go? You want to go up to the mountains? You guys mind some hiking or you want someplace where you can park close to your campsite?"

"Sounds like a lot to think about." Deyvis sighed. "I used to go camping a lot as a kid, I guess I never thought about what went into planning those trips.

"We have four girls between us —"

"Between you?"

"Second marriage for both of us. My wife— my first wife and I, we had one child before she passed. My wife and her ex-husband had two daughters, and we have one together. All four girls have been in 4-H since they were little. That's how we met, my girl and her youngest were in a group together. We've been on campouts with them, I was able to brush up on some of my skills, but I've never planned the whole trip. I didn't realize there was so much to consider.

"I thought camping would be a simple, peaceful, inexpensive way for the family to spend time together. Now I'm not so sure."

"It is, it is," Johnny exclaimed hurriedly. "This afternoon bring some paper and a pencil. I love camping, I go all the time. We'll go over everything: locations, equipment, everything."

The rubdown having ended while they spoke, Deyvis helped Johnny first to sit, then back into his shirt before finally settling him into his wheelchair.

"Look, John, I appreciate the offer, but I can't put you out like that."

"What are you talking about? You're not."

"You're my patient."

"So?"

"So, it wouldn't be appropriate."

Johnny rolled his eyes and was ready with a smart comeback. Instead he said sincerely, "Consider it therapy." Deyvis laughed as he wheeled Johnny toward the door. "I'm not kidding. Do you know what I do for a living?"

"Paramedic, I was told."

"Right, and do you know what that is?"

"Some. Like corpsmen and field medics for civilians, right?"

Johnny grabbed the wheels of his chair, as best he could. It was enough to let Deyvis know to stop. He moved around to face John and squatted by him so they were eye-to-eye. Johnny briefly explained the paramedic program and described some of what he did as a part of that program. The more he talked the more animated he became, and his passion for the work was clear. "Since I was a kid, all I ever wanted to be was a firefighter. I did it, too, as soon as I could, and then I became a rescue man. I didn't think it could get any better than that. Heck, when I first heard about the program I thought it was a step down, department ambulance attendants."

"What changed your mind?"

"Roy."

Suddenly Johnny was far away. Deyvis waited a bit for him, then finally asked, "Who's Roy?"

"Now he's my partner. Back then he was the L.A. County Fire Department's poster boy for the new paramedic program." His chuckle faded into a wistful smile. "There were only six guys in the first class, and he was one of them. He was a medic in the army before he joined the department. Naturally, he became a rescue man, then, when he saw a chance to put it all together and do for everybody here what he did for his guys in the service, well ... Roy knew from experience the difference immediate care could make. He wanted to make that difference."

"Sounds like you admire him."

"Yeah, I guess I do." There was a longing in John's voice. Deyvis stayed where he was, still and silent, until Johnny continued. "He was running the recruitment for the department. I checked around. I saw the program's potential, but ... Well, it wasn't really a program yet. It was gearing up, but, even fully trained, there was nothing in place, no system to operate under. After all, we would be practicing medicine, even if it was heavily supervised by licensed physicians. We still needed to be licensed or certified or something ourselves. We couldn't use what we'd learn. I didn't see the point of all the time and the work for training we couldn't use."

"Roy changed your mind?"

"He was very convincing. He didn't just see what the program could do, he understood the need to get ahead of it. Turns out he was right. He even went through the training again, keeping his skills sharp 'til he could put them to use. I was in that second class, first one out of Rampart. We did it together and I guess he saw what I could do. He said he'd make me his partner. I thought he was kidding. Then I got assigned. We started at 51s together."

"51s?"

"Station 51 in Carson. Opened less than a year ago. Roy knew it was his even before that. He brought me in; then the Cap— our captain, and the rest of the guys came. It's a good bunch of men, good crew."

When John did not go on, Deyvis said, "John, it's great that you love your work, getting back gives you something to work toward here, but— "

"But what does it have to do with planning your camping trip." Deyvis smiled and nodded. Johnny chuckled. "I guess I did kind of go off on a tangent, huh?

"My job is helping people. It's what I do, it's all I've ever done, all I ever wanted to do. It's hard enough being on the receiving end, I can't even help myself— "

"For now."

"For now," Johnny agreed grudgingly. "Let me help you. I know camping. You need the help and I … It'll let me feel normal, like myself."

Deyvis smiled, then finally nodded as he stood. They were both grinning widely when they reached Sarah, who was waiting to take Johnny back to his room for lunch.

**Scene Three**

"I brought you something." As was their routine, Sarah parked Johnny's wheelchair by the window and positioned the over-bed table in front of him. Today, she stood in front of the chair across from him and placed the picnic basket she had brought on his bed next to her to unpack it. First she took out a butter-yellow tablecloth and laid it on the table, then a pair of stoneware plates. Johnny watched her with great curiosity but said nothing. "Today we eat like people, Boychik. To start, no hospital tray. Real dishes." Next she pulled out a piece of thick pipe and held it out to him. Upon taking it he saw that a fork had been fitted to one end. "My daughter made it for my husband. He had his own injury last year. It was hard for him to grip at first, too. I was afraid I wouldn't be able, but I found it, finally." Next from the basket came an ordinary fork, a second piece of pipe, this one with a spoon on the end, a regular spoon, and two serving spoons. This was followed by a coffee cup and an extra large mug with a design on it, a large thermos, two cloth napkins that matched the tablecloth, a dark yellow Tupperware container, two small bowls, a red Tupperware, smaller than the yellow, and finally a half-pint container of cream. She placed the basket on the floor beside her chair and quickly set the table. From the thermos she poured two cups of coffee, placed the mug in front of Johnny, then opened the yellow Tupperware and spooned a generous helping of its contents onto each plate.

It was white and goppy, filled with onions and something silver, and had an odd, tangy scent. He leaned in to sniff it, then looked up at her with his nose still wrinkled. "What is it?"

"Schmaltz herring." It sounded like one word.

"What? Small what?"

"Schmaltz. Schmaltz herring. Try it." It took a couple of attempts to get the hang of the pipe-handled fork; then he did try it. At the look on his face she erupted into giggles. "It's an acquired taste. Try again."

He gave her a pleading look but did as she requested. "That's the strangest thing I've ever tasted." He took another piece.

"Is good, yes?"

"No." He took another small piece. "It's … strange. Not bad, exactly, but I wouldn't say it's good." Another bite. A few minutes later Sarah was leaning back in her chair, smiling smugly. "What?" She looked down at his plate then back up at him. Her smile widened. His gaze followed hers to his empty plate. He smiled up at her sheepishly. "You did say it's an acquired taste," he conceded. "I guess I acquired it."

"I guess you did, Boychik." She opened the Tupperware and spooned another generous serving onto his plate. When he had finished that one too he asked, "So what is … um, what did you call it? Small earrings?"

"Schmaltz herring," she corrected with a chuckle. "Herring. The fish. It's pickled herring in cream sauce." The look on his face set her to giggling again.

He quickly joined her. "Ok," he gasped between laughs. "I think I like it better called ... schmaltz herring?" She nodded. "Pickled fish in cream. It sounds disgusting, but it's …"

"Not bad."

"Yeah, not bad." He placed the fork beside the empty plate. "If you don't mind my asking, what happened that your husband needed a special fork?"

"No, Boychik," she smiled, "I don't mind." Her mouth twitched in a strange little smile. "It's really quite ridiculous. Not so funny then, but now?

"He was fixing a cabinet in my kitchen, but getting the stepladder? Too much trouble, he decides, so he uses a chair. Not such good balance. He put his hands out …"

"Oh, no. He broke his hand or his wrist?"

"Both wrists. And his thumb."

"His right …" He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. "The right thumb. And sprained his right ankle." It wasn't a question. Sarah nodded and smiled. "Mrs. Gottmann. Your husband is Eli Gottmann."

"Eliezer, yes. I wondered if you ever would recognize me."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"Ah, Boychik, you have how many people you help every day? And you saw us once, what, a year ago? I didn't want to, as they say, 'put you on the spot.' It is nice that you do remember." He blushed.

"When did you recognize me?"

"The first time I saw you. But I asked for you before that. Because of you and your partner, I wanted you before I knew you were you." He had to smile at that. He knew exactly what she meant. He could just picture Roy rolling his eyes at it.

"But why? I mean, if you didn't know who I was yet, why'd you want me?"

"Have you ever heard the word mitzveh?" He shook his head. "Let me see," she murmured thoughtfully. "It does not translate exactly. The best English is 'a good deed,' but that is like to say that a sin is just a bad deed. A mitzveh is bigger than just a good deed. Farshtay?" The word was vaguely familiar, but it was obvious what she was asking.

"Yeah," he nodded. "I think I understand."

"Yes, Boychik," she exclaimed happily, "you do!" They exchanged smiles. "It is a mitzveh to help someone. And it's a mitzveh to let someone help you."

"It is? Why?"

"It lets them do a mitzveh. It is good to allow another the chance to do good.

"I would do, at temple, in the neighborhood, the community. After Eli's accident, I realized I could do more. I should do more. You showed me that, you and your partner."

"But we were just doing our jobs."

"Ah, I see. So you make a great deal of money, yes?"

"No," he chuckled. "You don't join the fire department to get rich."

"So it is the paramedics. You got a big raise to do all that."

"No. In fact, even with all the extra training and responsibility, there's no extra money in it at all. No promotion either, not even honorary."

"So why then?" He shook his head, his confusion clear on his face. "Why you did the extra training, do extra work, take on extra responsibility. You do your job to earn your living, yes? A man works, he is paid. So if there is no pay, how is that 'just' your job?"

"Of course I get paid, I just get paid the same as all firefighters. There's no more money for being a paramedic."

"Then you don't fight fires anymore, just the paramedic."

"No," he tried not to laugh at her apparent confusion, though she hardly seemed confused. "Of course I still fight fires. I go where I'm called. Rescues, medical calls, fires. Wherever I'm needed."

"Why?"

"It's what I do. It's all I ever wanted to do. I wanted to be a fireman ever since I was a kid."

"Fireman. But paramedic? Since you were a kid? I read about this paramedic business. Only a year, it's been." She looked him over, a sly smile curling her lips. "Yes, may very well be last year you were a kid." He sat up a bit straighter and tried to appear offended, but her affection was clear, so he returned her smile and, with a nod, bid her continue. "So there is no extra money, no extra recognition, no extra for you. Just extra training, extra work, extra responsibility. So you do it why?"

He thought about it, then shrugged. "I'm a rescue man," he stated simply, as though that explained everything. "When I got to the department it was a natural step, like it was meant to be. The paramedic program just lets me do more. Sometimes that extra training means extra time for a patient, time to get stabilized, to get to the hospital, time that can save lives. We can get to them faster than they can get to the doctor, save them some worry, pain, and, yes, maybe even save their life."

"You, Boychik, are a mentsh."

The confusion reappeared. "I'm human?"

"Ah ha," Sarah smile broadly. "Du sprichst Deutsch!"

"Ich verstehe einige. But just a little bit, I don't really speak it."

"That's too bad, you sound good. Not such an American accent."

"Thanks," he replied self-consciously. "There's German in my family. I never really used it, but enough of the family spoke it that I picked some up."

"Well, much of Yiddish comes from German. In German, yes, a Mensch is a human being; in Yiddish a mentsh is a _human being_." He smiled, but still appeared unsure. "A person with conscience, integrity. Heart.

"I read in the newspaper about your paramedic program; so, when Eliezer fell, I knew to call the fire department. We were confident he would not die from his injuries, but he was in such pain. Then you and your partner came. You were professional, efficient, most important, you were compassionate. I don't know if you remember, but while you were taking care of my partner, your partner took good care of me. You two let me worry less.

"I knew from the newspaper stories there was only extra for you to do, no extra for you to get. You reminded me how much I had, what I could give. Eli did his rehabilitation here. When he came home, I kept coming. When I found out one of the patients was a paramedic, I had to help him. I had no idea it was you.

"I am sorry you got hurt, Boychik," she laid her hand on his, oh, so gently, "but I am glad I can maybe help get you better. Which you are. Soon you'll be in the dining room, you won't need me anymore." Johnny was at a loss for words. Their eyes met, and before the tears in hers could fall, Sarah grabbed the red Tupperware and opened it. Suddenly the room was filled with the scent of apple and cinnamon. She put the baked apples into the bowls, poured some cream over them, placed the pipe-spoon into one of the bowls, then gently pushed the dessert and the large coffee mug closer to him. "Before it gets cold," she instructed.

He reached for the mug, then noticed the design on the side: בויטשיק. As he looked more closely he realized it was writing of some kind, though he did not recognize the letters. When he looked up, he saw she was again watching him with a small smile. "It is yours," she said. "The mug. It says 'boychik,'" she explained before he could ask.

"I've been meaning to ask," he carefully raised the mug. It was a little heavy, he needed both hands, but the size allowed him to grasp it easily. "I mean, you use it like a name, your own private nickname for me, and I have no idea what it means."

"And you didn't like it." Again, not a question. She read him too well.

"Not at first. It didn't take long to figure out it wasn't English, but, well … in English a 'chick' is a girl …"

"So, what, you thought I was calling you girly-boy?"

"No, of course not." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Ok, well, maybe for a second," he admitted, the blush rising to his cheeks.

"Boy, yes. Girly, no. Though there is nothing wrong with being a girl. I am a girl."

"You are, you're a great girl!" He smiled broadly, turning up the old Gage charm.

"You better believe it, Boychik."

"Is that also Yiddish?" Sarah nodded. "But you said Yiddish is like German, which I don't read so well, but I can sure recognize it."

"Yes, Yiddish is mostly German, with Hebrew, and it is written with Hebrew letters. So, it sounds like German, but it looks like Hebrew."

"Far out," Johnny grinned, then carefully took a sip from his new mug.

"It just means boy, or young man. I guess it depends on how old is the person saying it, and how young is the boy she is saying it to."

"I'm not that young," he tried to sound indignant, but his smirk gave him away. "And you're not old."

She picked up her coffee cup and tapped it to his. "Jeder sieht ein Stückchen Welt, gemeinsam sehen wir die ganze."

"Wait, I know that!"

"Traditionally it is said at weddings, but I think it applies here. Do you remember what is the meaning?"

He thought for a bit, then a smile slowly spread across his face. "Each of us sees a part of the world; together we see all of it."

**Scene Four**

The call came directly to the station. She asked for Roy. Possible heart attack.

"Mrs. Tyro," he greeted her solemnly upon their arrival, "what's happening, where is she?"

"This way." She led the paramedics into the house, then up the stairs and into one of the bedrooms. She stepped aside to reveal Missy, who lay still and silent on the bed.

"Heart attack," Bellingham asked Roy as discreetly as he could. "How old is she?"

The men sprang into action, even as they questioned her mother. "Why do you think she had a heart attack; what happened?" Roy slid the sleeve of Missy's sweatshirt up to get her pulse and blood pressure. She was severely dehydrated. He hoped with all his heart it was no more than that.

"She's been complaining of a headache since yesterday." Mrs. Tyro spoke slowly, softly. "At lunch she started gagging, I just thought the food went down the wrong way. She said she felt funny, that she could feel her heart beating in her chest. She came up here to lie down. I came to check on her and found her like that. I couldn't wake her up."

"How long ago," Bellingham inquired.

"I called you right away, so less than ten minutes, and she'd come up here maybe five minutes before that."

When he rested his hand on her abdomen to get her respirations, Roy was horrified by what he felt. He raised the shirt just a bit, then glanced over at her mother. "When's the last time she ate?"

"I … she …" Missy's mother stammered. "She had lost weight in the hospital, and she's been finicky since she's been home. I know she's not eating well, but I had no idea." She looked again at her daughter's skeletal arm and emaciated abdomen. "She looks like she's been starving. How did I not see it?"

"We'll do everything we can for her, Mrs. Tyro," Roy assured. "You did like I told you, so the ambulance is on the way, right?" She nodded. "Go meet it, show them in here when it arrives."

She looked from him to her daughter, then back to him. Roy DeSoto was one of the few good things in her daughter's life these days, in her family's life. He'd visited Missy in the hospital whenever he could, and continued to check in on her often. He'd shown them all, especially Missy, kindness and support far beyond the scope of his job. She looked into his eyes. Blue eyes filled with kindness, compassion, and concern. Eyes so much like Samuel's had been. She nodded once and left the room.

Roy turned his undivided attention to the patient. He had set up the biophone and established the connection as Bellingham completed gathering her vital signs.

"Rampart, this is Squad 51, how do you read?" Dr. Brackett acknowledged the call, and Roy quickly continued. "Rampart, we have a 15-year-old female, apparent heart attack." He read off her vital signs, making the doctor aware of the shallow respirations, bradycardia, hypotension, equal and sluggish pupils, and the lack of response to verbal stimuli and minimal response to pain stimuli. "Rampart, stand by for a strip" Roy concluded.

"What the hell's the story with this kid, DeSoto," Bellingham demanded.

Before Roy could reply, Brackett was barking out instructions. Missy was already wearing the O2 mask; there was a flurry of activity as the paramedics established the IV and administered the medications. Just as they were ready for it, the ambulance arrived. Bellingham assisted the attendants, Roy followed with Mrs. Tyro.

"You can ride with us in the ambulance," Roy informed her. "You'll just have to ride up front."

She nodded. "I thought she was going to be ok," she told him. "I knew it would take a while, but I really thought she was doing better."

**Scene Five **

Bellingham caught Roy's eye just to let him know that he'd arrived, then made his way to the base station, leaving Roy to sit with Angela Tyro.

"What do I tell her father," Mrs. Tyro asked.

"I would imagine it's best to just tell the truth."

She looked at him skeptically. "I suppose." She laughed sadly. "There was a time when I couldn't have even conceived of the possibility of anything else. I'd never have felt any need to ask such a question."

Roy nodded his understanding. "If you don't mind my asking," he said gently, "what happened?"

"I'm not sure. It happened so slowly, I didn't see it. I didn't want to see it," she corrected. "I wish you could have known Samuel then," she continued. "You're a lot like him. Or rather, he was a lot like you. He was a good man, Mr. DeSoto. He loved G-d, he loved me, and he loved our children. He was the most gracious, compassionate, loving man I've ever known."

_So what the hell happened?_ Out loud, Roy just said, "I'm sure he loves you."

She smiled bitterly. "I'm sure he does," she agreed grimly, "in his way. I just don't understand his way anymore." She fell silent. When she continued, the tears she refused to allow to form in her eyes were in her voice. "Samuel and I were so young when we married, but we were so much in love. We started our family right away. I know Missy told you she has two brothers." He nodded. "Junior came first. Sammy's a lieutenant in the Army now. He's a company chaplain in Vietnam. Sebastian was born less than a year later. Today Bastian's in university; studying medicine, as a matter of fact. Missy, my little girl, she was a surprise. The boys were in school. They were embarrassed at first having a pregnant Mom," she confided with a small smile, "but as soon as we brought her home they were both in love. We all were. I thought we were," she added, almost too softly for Roy to hear.

"I think that's when Samuel started to change. It was subtle at first, even sweet. He was less carefree, more serious, but he was serious about us, his family. He grew so protective of us. Now I … I have to protect my daughter from him." The control to which she'd been so desperately clinging left her and the first tear fell. "I can't understand how my family has come to this. How is it I have to protect one of my children from her own father?"

Roy, at a loss as to how to comfort the woman, was saved by Dr. Brackett's approach. Mrs. Tyro jumped to her feet. Brackett motioned for her to retake her seat, then sat himself, putting her between himself and Roy.

"It's not a heart attack," he began slowly. She began to smile, but he continued solemnly. "There is a problem with her heart, however. She's experienced what we call an anorexic crisis. Mrs. Tyro, I'd like to admit her. We need to run some tests, find out just how much damage has been done to her heart and other organs."

Angela was nodding, despite the look of shock she wore. Finally, she asked, "What exactly is an anorexic crisis?"

"Put simply, she's starving. Her body is so malnourished that it's taking energy from wherever it can. Without any fat stores, it's moved on to her organs."

"She's digesting herself," Angela mumbled, more to herself than either of the men.

"That's a bit simplistic," Brackett began. "But not entirely inaccurate."

"So what now? You said something about admitting her?"

Dr. Brackett nodded. "There are some additional forms to sign, as soon as you're ready. We'll get her into a room while you do that, then you can see her." She nodded as they rose. The doctor offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile, then left her with Roy to return to Missy in the treatment room.

It took Angela a moment to realize Roy was standing at her side. She sighed. "She was getting better," she stated. "Did she tell you she's been talking to the chaplain here at Rampart?"

Roy shook his head. "She mentioned that she finally started seeing someone, not that it was Chuck Miller."

"For over two weeks now."

Roy took her arm and gently steered her toward the desk to complete the forms Brackett had mentioned. "That's great. I know you were hoping she'd see the counselor from the Rape Crisis Center or some kind of professional. So was I, but she was pretty adamant. What changed her mind?"

"You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"Almost three weeks ago, just before she started seeing him, Missy … she tried … Mr. DeSoto, Missy tried to kill herself." She saw the shock and sadness in his eyes.

"Thank goodness she failed."

"She didn't fail, exactly. She was talked out of it. And convinced to see the Chaplain."

"For whoever convinced her, then."

"It was your partner." Roy's mind raced. Had Bellingham worked any overtime at 51s? The Tyro house was in their coverage area. But it was pretty clear on this run that he'd never been there before nor met Missy, let alone rescued her. "It was right here in the hospital," Angela continued. "Mr. Gage was truly a G-d-send."

**Scene Six **

_Johnny followed the boy down the endless hallway. The further they traveled, the dimmer the light grew. __The sound of their footfalls changed and Johnny __realized that the ground beneath his feet felt different as well. As his eyes grew __accustomed to the darkness __he saw that the crunch he was hearing was earth, the __hallway had given way to a tunnel._

"_Hey kid?" __Johnny called._

"_C'mon," __the __child __called back, __"we're almost there!" __Johnny quickened his pace, but the distance between them continued to __grow. __"This way, come on!"_

"_Slow down," __Johnny tried._

"_But we have to hurry and we're almost there." With that he broke into a run._

_Johnny followed suit. __"Kid?" No answer. __Johnny ran faster. __The tunnel opened __into __a large cavern. __The roar of running water reverberated through the enclosed space. __"Where are you?" Johnny turned slowly, taking in the entire cave. The light was a little better than it had been in the passageway. As he continued to turn he spotted a __large __campfire. _That wasn't there when I came in here. _He saw __no running water despite the sound, although much of the ground was muddy. __"Where'd you go,__kid?" __he called again. __Upon completing his __circle Johnny __was __face-to-face with two very large men._

"_Right here," __replied the shorter of the two with a wave of his open hand toward Johnny._

_Johnny let out an uncomfortable laugh and took a step back. The larger man was suddenly behind him, between him and __the __only __exit. He swallowed hard. "Look," he spoke carefully, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt, __"I'm here to help. My name is John Gage, I'm a firefighter/paramedic with the county fire department. We got a call, __a __boy came __out __and told us there was a kid __in trouble __back here."_

"_There is," __the larger man growled in his ear. __"You."_

_With lightning speed the man in front of him snatched the badge off Johnny's shirt __even __as the one behind grabbed him by the shoulders and __spun __him around. The shorter of the two, now behind him, __pinned Johnny's arms __behind his back __while the larger man __before him __grabbed John's shirt at the neck and pulled. Buttons __flew, the T-shirt beneath __ripped __easily. __The man __ran his hands slowly up John's bare chest and slid both shirts off his shoulders. Johnny opened his mouth to yell for help. Before he was able to make a sound, one of the huge __hands had clamped on to the back of his head, holding it __in place __as __the large man __kissed __him hard and __deep._

_When the kiss ended, __Johnny gagged __and __coughed; __the men laughed._

_The bigger man __slipped his arm around John's waist and held him fast while __the other __removed and __discarded __the __torn shirts. __"__You're so pretty. __Nice, trim figure. __Shiny hair,__" __he __ran his fingers through Johnny's hair. __"__Soft, too.__" __When Johnny shook his head fiercely against the touch __the big man __laughed even harder. __"__Come on, __Janey, __dance with me.__" __With his right arm still firmly around Johnny's waist, __the man __grabbed John's right hand with his left and began waltzing him around the __cave. __The next thing Johnny knew, __a __hand crept down his back and paused at his waistband. __He continued struggling but __he __couldn't pull away. He __just __wasn't strong enough._

_Johnny __fought to no avail. __His skin crawled as the hand continued __down __his bare back, below __his waist, then clamped down hard and pulled him close to the __other's body. __He was __spun and __dipped __and __laid almost tenderly onto the muddy ground. __Before he could __move __away the shorter of the men __was kneeling behind him and pulled him up so that he sat with his back against the man's chest. Johnny's hands had landed on hard earth, the man knelt directly on them with his full weight. As his knees were breaking Johnny's hands, his own hands gently caressed John's upper body. The __taller __man __loomed over __them. The noise of the running water and the heat from the campfire seemed to __increase, __making Johnny __dizzy. __His vision was blurred by the sweat running into his eyes. __The taller man was bending toward him, then he felt __the __hands again, at __his hips, fingers slipping __past his belt, then a sudden chill and __his pants landed in the mud beside him. __John __renewed his struggle. __The big man bent toward him again and with one quick, efficient tug laid Johnny bare._

_Johnny __lay before them, __exposed, humiliated, __vulnerable. His ongoing struggles seemed to serve no purpose other than to wear him out. __The __size and strength of these men was exceeded only by their stamina. He was helpless. Alone and helpless. He sighed inwardly, exhausted and terrified._

_The taller man lowered himself. __Being pressed between these two hulking men made breathing difficult; the feeling of their bodies on his and the smell of them made Johnny gag. __Though he continued to struggle, __he was __barely able to__squirm. He __closed his eyes and __prayed __for the strength to fight. __One set of powerful hands reached from behind to play across his chest and sides and arms; __another equally __powerful __set was __again __at John's hips, then __continued their downward journey. At first almost gently, groping __harder __as they moved, gripping painfully at the upper thighs, pulling at them. At the same moment Johnny __felt the tongue run up his cheek and __across his lips. With a burst of strength Johnny threw his head __up and forward. __It connected. The hands __withdrew. A __yelp __of pain came from __above __him. The __knees vanished from his hands._

"_You shouldn't have done that,__" __there was genuine __surprise in addition to the anger in the big man__'s voice__. __"__We weren't __hurting you.__"_

_The shorter man moved toward his companion. __Johnny __took advantage of the momentary distraction to __try to __scramble __for the entrance __to the tunnel. __The shorter man__'__s foot on his chest __ground him back into the muck. The larger man__'__s hands were at his __own bleeding __nose. __"__Man, we were just playing with you.__"_

Playing? They're out of their minds._ He tried to sit up, to move away, __but could gain no traction __and kept slipping __back into the mud._

"_Let's just finish this,__" __the shorter one __snarled. He stepped down. Johnny could swear he heard one of his ribs crack. _

"_I have a better idea,__" __said __his friend._

"_Yeah,__" __the shorter one agreed. __"H__e__'__s a fireman, they like the heat.__" __He __grabbed Johnny around his thighs and lifted, then the tall one grabbed him under his shoulders __and together they carried him to __the campfire. __Blood from the taller__'__s nose dripped into John's hair, mixed with the mud __and ran down his face and body. __It itched and burned. __Johnny thrashed wildly against them. Despite his __movement __and the mud __they easily tightened their grips._

_They dropped him into an especially large, viscous puddle __right beside the fire. _How long have I been back here? Guys? Cap? Roy? Please! You've got to miss me by now. _The mud seemed to have a mind of its __own, helping his tormentors by holding him __firmly. __He could only __watch __as __they __stepped __back and reached __into the fire. Both __pulled out __branches, glowing __red and smoking. Unable to fight, unable to flee, Johnny __was finally able to move enough to __curl __himself into a ball. He __squeezed his eyes shut, __tucked his chin as close to his chest as he could __and wrapped __his __arms __tightly __around his head._

_The first blow was to his hip. Too hard to be a fist, not burning. A boot heel. They were stomping __him. Another stomp loosed something in his right side. He wanted to reach for the spot, __the right pressure would relieve some of the pain, but __he knew that would be a mistake. The proof came a second later, a strike by __one of the smoldering branches broke his left forearm. He wanted so badly to pull it away, protect it from further injury, but he __knew if he did that he'd leave his head vulnerable. The next burning blow stuck at his kidneys. __One of his attackers broke Johnny__'__s feet __with a pair of well placed kicks. __A __strike __aimed at __Johnny__'__s __head __broke his right humerus. __The hits came harder and faster, boots and burning branches. He could no longer track the individual blows as each added to the pain coursing through him. Just when he was sure he could bear no more a powerful blow landed __at __his __right __shoulder, forcing it from its socket. The pain was unbearable, but still he held on. The heat increased. He heard the crackling. Somehow, __in __the __midst of the beating, __they had moved him nearer to the fire. His body was already so broken. What more could they want? __"H__e__'__s a fireman,__" __the shorter one had said, __"__they like the heat.__" __The heat. The fire. He began to burn._

Johnny woke with a start. The images of his nightmare began to fade immediately, the physical pain more slowly. The terror remained. He rubbed harshly at his skin, unable to clear the living, crawling filth he felt there. His panic rose; he had to get clean. His survival depended on it. He needed to wash as surely as he needed to breathe. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. With his eyes on the bathroom door and both hands holding as tightly as he could to the bed rail, Johnny stood. He took a step, released the rail and took another, then one more before his weakened legs gave out. Undeterred, he attempted to crawl, continuing toward the bathroom where he could get clean. If he could just get clean. His arms would not carry him either, they could not support him. He collapsed in the middle of the room, too far from the bed to reach for his call button, too far from the bathroom to achieve his goal. His breathing quickened. Lying there in the middle of his room, unable to move, Johnny felt completely vulnerable. He slapped the floor in frustration; the pain shot up his arm and across his shoulders. His breathing continued to speed up, his heart rate along with it. He tried to call out, but could not draw enough breath. His terror rose, quickening his breathing and heart rate further, which only served to frighten him more. The cycle continued until he fell unconscious.


End file.
